Variant
by MelanieKS
Summary: After the encounter with the Nemeton and the Nogistune, Stiles possesses a powerful gift that allows him to heal rapidly, as well as heal others. With the war between werewolves and hunters still raging on, both sides want a piece of him, but for very different reasons. After a tragic loss, he's forced to run and stay three steps ahead of those hunting him down.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This plot idea is running wild in my mind, something I've been working on for many years, and now that Teen Wolf has inspired me, I'm writing like a mad woman. Unless life/work gets hectic, I will update frequently.

This story is not beta'd by a second pair of eyes. I am painstakingly editing and re-editing it myself, over the course of several days. If you spot anything while reading, let me know and I'll definitely take care of it.

Also, the werewolves turn into REAL wolves. None of that half beastly face stuff.

This story takes place five years in the future. The teenagers are now 23 while Derek is (I'm assuming) around 28.

****SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4****

Around the end of Season 4 is where this story takes a canon divergence. Peter wasn't locked up in Eichen House, but fled after the fight with Scott in Mexico. He's formed a Pack of his own, which will include some old faces. The other divergence is Stiles acquires a powerful gift after the Nemeton/Nogistune where he can heal himself, as well as heal others when he touches them. This power evolves throughout the story, too.

PART ONE

Uninvited Reunion

_October, 2019_

Stiles _hurts_.

He can think of nothing else. The synapses in his brain spark as every inch and crevice of his body screams in agony, nerves on fire. He looks down at his trembling, bloody hands and then at the front door of his apartment. He blinks, confused, and trips back a step. He doesn't remember getting here. He has no memory of it, or anything before the pain encompassed him. Having no recollection scares him more; his mind and body never reacted like this. His cognition always remained intact and crisp with the touch.

Nausea hits him like a sucker punch to the gut, the fear and uncertainty driving him further into hysterics. He falters, vision swaying and arms flailing in a desperate attempt to find solid ground before he falls face first on the floor. He stumbles inside the apartment, stomach convulsing, and he rushes to the bathroom. The bile stings the back of his throat and he barely makes it across the threshold before he retches. Sweat drenches his clothes and hair. He shivers, teeth chattering as he clutches the toilet's base like a lifeline, arms like cooked spaghetti. He collapses on the floor, gasping for air with his legs drawn up and arms hugging his chest. Cold tremors wrack his body to the core. Invisible ice wraps around his lungs, his heart, his mind, and squeezes until oblivion drags him under without mercy.

Hours, maybe minutes later – Stiles doesn't know – he comes around with his cheek pressed against the tile floor. It's sticky and wet from his sweat and vomit. He inhales and exhales slowly, still feeling the dregs of sickness curling in his stomach. The pain has subsided to a dull throb, but he is breathless and unable to find the strength to move for a long time.

When he manages to stand, he grabs the sink with white knuckled fists. He twists on the faucet. Water runs hot down the drain; steam billowing and fogging the mirror. He swipes a hand across the glass and inventories his reflection. It frightens and sickens him. Skin ashen, eyes blotchy, and tear tracks slicing a path through the blood smeared on his face like warrior paint. He can feel it coagulated in his hair, crusting on his neck. He remembers the blood, not his own, coating his hands, but he didn't realize how much until now.

"You can't keep doing this," he mutters to his reflection, shaking his head. Then he shudders, closing his eyes and drops his head between hunched shoulders.

He is so screwed.

_They _will find him now, hunters – the Calaveras. This particular band of hunters is resourceful, cruel, and eager to go to any lengths to capture him and use him. His power, the blood pumping in his veins – a _curse –_ is the key to eradicating werewolves. If caught he will become a fierce weapon. Something he's fought to prevent since he discovered he has the ability to heal himself and others. After the Nogistune's possession created this dormant power, just waiting to surface and make his life a living hell all over again.

One act of heroism blew it all to hell. No doubt someone caught his inhuman ability on camera, but an internal force convinces him he made the right decision, no matter the consequences that will follow. He saved the boy's life, and he'd do it again without pause or regret.

Or would he?

It's easy to say he doesn't regret it now, but once he has to run again, constantly looking over his shoulder and suspecting every person who passes by a potential enemy, he might change his mind. He can't deny he wishes he was still in Beacon Hills, with the Pack around and enveloping him in their comforting security. But he can't go back, doesn't _want_ to go back – ever. Beacon Hills is a remnant of a haunted past and needs to stay buried there, including those he left behind.

_Malia. _

He cringes any time he thinks of her, when he's weak and allows his feelings and memories to get the better of him. He berates himself for falling in love with her, and he hates himself more for running away without giving her a good enough explanation other than, "It's for the best." She deserved something better – something he couldn't give her. His time with Malia may have been brief, but everything seemed to slow down and resemble normalcy in the midst of a chaotic whirlwind of death and betrayal.

_Stop thinking of her! You can't go back. _

He shoves Malia through a back door in his mind and slams it shut, but as much as he tries to reject any memory of her, the door won't stay closed. She's the main part of his life when he felt whole, _happy_. After the Nogistune, she became a pillar of support when his life was thrown off-balance. He can't forget that, he can't forget her.

The water is a balm against his clammy, dirty skin. It washes away the blood, turning pink as it sluices down the drain. He tries to imagine it all disappearing; everything that reminds him of his lonely existence on the run. He wants respite. He no longer wants to be in the middle of the war between werewolves and hunters. And he certainly doesn't want to be the _key_ to end it.

He drags his wearied limbs toward the bedroom, doesn't care to undress or take off his shoes, as he slumps onto the mattress, bending his knees close to his chest and burying his face into a pillow. Just a few minutes of rest, he tells himself, and then he will pack and find a new city to hide in. The moment he closes his eyes, sleep consumes him and he welcomes it.

Pulse thrumming, Stiles jerks awake, not sure how long he's slept. Too long by the darkness swallowing the bedroom in a thick, inky blanket. A train horn blares in the distance, the low hum of traffic on the freeway buzzes outside the open window. Stiles rolls onto his back, releases a hoarse groan and scrubs the heel of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't feel rested at all. His nerves are on edge, uneasy and restless, and the headache hasn't stopped driving a serrated spike behind his eyes.

He can't ignore the itch that something isn't right. It prickles the hairs on the back of his neck, like thousands of ants crawling along his skin. He sits up, looking around the room. Glowing red eyes outlined by a lurking shadow stare at him from the corner by the window. _Peter!_ Gasping with a curse stuck in his throat, he jolts back across the mattress with the panicked instinct to find a weapon, heart thumping against his teeth.

His hand lands on the 9mm Ruger on the bedside table, but he's too slow. Claws grip his wrist tight enough to break bone with one more squeeze, forcing him to release his hold on the gun. It clatters to the floor, Stiles's heart sinking for a split moment before the drive to survive triggers. He twists around, trying to kick the intruder. He's rewarded with his face plastered into the sheets, arm wrenched behind his back. Shoulder muscles and joints strain against the pull on his arm, and he grits his teeth, cursing. The fight is out of him before it even started, and his pride feels the worst of it. If the skull-splitting headache hadn't slowed him down, he could have at least electrocuted the damn werewolf before it had a chance to restrain him.

_Just my luck._

"Don't fight me, Stiles," a voice grating and stern, yet soft, warns above him, breathing steady in his ear. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Stiles blinks hard, brows knotting in confusion and then swiftly to anger. "Scott? Really? That's not the message I'm getting here." His body remains coiled like a taut wire ready to snap. "What are you doing here? How did you find me? No wait – _how_ did you get in?"

Thanks to Deaton's parting gift, Stiles had enough mountain ash to barricade every window and door, including wolf's bane underneath his bed. Humans he can handle to a degree, but werewolves are another ballgame he rather not mess with – ever again. With Scott here it only brings up bitterness and pain, squeezing Stiles's heart in a vice and his blood run frigid. He left Beacon Hills with every intention of not turning back. After his dad— No, he refuses to think about it. He shakes his head, closing his eyes against the burning memory of claws and teeth ripping and shredding until blood ran like a river, of Peter's triumphant howl echoing, resonating within Stiles's shattered soul.

He bucks his hips, trying to dislodge the weight on top of him even when he knows the effort is fruitless. It only leaves him panting, chest tight as his vision careens. His muscles seize up with the icy tendrils of a panic attack. He has to get away, get as far away from Scott as possible. "Get off— Let me up. I swear, Scott. I swear to God if you don't—"

Some of the force lets up on his arm, and the bulk eases from his back. He shifts and turns his head to the side, and catches the outline of Scott's chiseled jawline. He's cringing, sniffing the air, red eyes flashing. A low growl emanates deep within the werewolf's chest, rattling Stiles's bones and he shivers, teeth chattering before he can reign in his terror.

"Wolf's bane?" The words spill from Scott's mouth like venom as he recoils. Stiles knows the Alpha feels deceived, but he doesn't give a flip. If the wolf's bane doesn't convey the message clear enough, Stiles is more than happy to send it another way. With a few thousand volts of electricity shoved down Scott's throat.

"Yes. You ignorant dick! Now, get off me or I promise that's not the only thing—"

"I'm not your _enemy_, Stiles," Scott grinds out through bared teeth, and then exhales out slow and deep, as if to anchor him. "I'm here to help you."

"Don't. I'm fine on my own. I don't need your charity or _you_. I've managed to stay under the radar for this long. One little mess up is not going to hurt—"

"You have no idea, do you?"

Stiles swallows hard. He knows perfectly well the implications of his screw up, and the last thing he needs is for Scott to remind him. The abilities Stiles possesses with one touch haunt him every moment of every day, and after this morning he knows shit has officially hit the fan.

The claws trapping him retract, heavy weight shifting to the side to let him sit up. He shuffles as far away as possible, back hitting the headboard. He stares at Scott's face highlighted in the soft amber glow of a streetlamp as he stands, putting distance between him and the bed – the wolf's bane. His eyes are drawn, shaded, looking back at Stiles with the regret, loss, and ache of the past, including betrayal. Again, Stiles doesn't want to be reminded of it. He looks away, drawing his knees closer to his chest.

"What you can do… You're drawing attention to yourself. The kind of attention you don't want," Scott hisses. He shakes his head, almost as if he is reprimanding Stiles internally.

"You mean to say what _you_ don't want."

Scott ignores his retort. "I saw you today. You healed that boy on the motorcycle. If I saw then hunters most likely did, too. They have eyes everywhere. More resources than we do."

"It was stupid, I know. Let me deal with it. This is my problem."

Scott snarls again, and Stiles shut his mouth. "You really don't get it, do you? They will find you. They will use you and make you bleed until every last drop is used to destroy my kind. Peter's pack is trying to track you down, too. You know he will stop at nothing to make sure you're dead before the hunters get a hold of you." He sighs heavily. "I wish you would stop acting so stubborn and see that I am your _friend_, Stiles. Always was. Always will be. Nothing has changed—"

"Shut up."

Stiles wants to lunge forward and wrap his hands around Scott's throat for thinking everything is A-OKAY. Everything is _not_ okay, hasn't been since his dad— Stiles gulps down the sting of bile and swipes at a stubborn tear rolling down his cheek. He grinds his teeth until he's sure they will crack, the persistent headache pounding hard and fast at the base of his skull.

"Just shut up, please."

Silence settles like a dense fog between them. Stiles fidgets with the hem of his shirt, gnawing on his bottom lip. He's not sure what to say or do other than admit he made a colossal mistake, not only for himself, but also the werewolves. If the hunters did get a hold of him, there is no telling the amount of damage they will spread in order to wipe out their problem. A part of him knows using his power was selfish and stupid, but he still can't find it in him to fully regret saving the kid this morning. Not after he couldn't save his own father.

"I get it. I screwed up, I know. I just couldn't stand by and let that kid die."

"I know," Scott mumbles. He knows why Stiles had to do it, and he doesn't argue. "What it did to you, though. That's never happened before…"

The buzz of a phone vibrating resonates in the room, interrupting Scott's vocal thought process. He fishes out his cell from his jeans pocket, the screen lit up with a message. Cursing under his breath, he taps on the screen, replying.

"Derek's outside. He smells the Calaveras coming. They can't be far," he reports with urgency. "We don't have much time. We need to leave _now_, Stiles."

Impulsively, Stiles wants to lie prone on the floor, cross his arms like a child throwing a tantrum, and refuse to give in to Scott's demands. But he knows Scott will just fireman carry him out of the apartment. This is a fight he can't win, not if he wants to survive. He needs Scott and his pack as allies not enemies, but the past is coming back like bitter bile and Stiles _can't_ forget that. His stubbornness overrules the logical side of his brain, the one screaming at him to go with Scott, but instead he shakes his head, reaching for the backup Taser under his pillow.

"I can't go with you. I can't just act like nothing's happened—"

"_Stiles._"

He backs away from Scott, holding up the Taser. "Don't—"

Scott's a dark blur when he surges forward and grabs Stiles's ankle, dragging him off the bed and ripping a sharp cry from his throat. The Taser tumbles to the floor in the midst of Stiles scrambling to hang onto something – sheets, table, anything – while kicking Scott with every bit of strength he has. He hits unrelenting muscle, doesn't even get a grunt from the Alpha.

"You bastard—"

Scott has him on his feet, one hand clamped around his elbow and forcefully pulling Stiles toward the front door. The momentary life he made for himself in this small apartment, in this city, is now gone. It wasn't much to begin with, but Stiles made it _something_. He knows he can't turn back. Not for his dad's worn-out jacket with the Beacon County Sheriff's Department patch barely attached on the left sleeve. The anchors in his turbulent existence are abandoned and he feels the itch crawling up his back, the beginnings of a panic attack threatening to spill out and take control.

"Wait—" he gasps, head reeling back to focus on the last glimpse of his father's jacket draped over the sofa. "Just let me—"

"I'm sorry, but there's no time," Scott declares, sighing. He shakes his head and tugs harder to keep Stiles moving. He can't match the long, hasty strides of the Alpha, and only stumbles along. "You shouldn't've fought me."

"You shouldn't've followed me. I told you I didn't want your help."

Derek is pacing beyond the threshold, unable to cross the mountain ash barrier. His body is coiled tight, muscles straining and ready for a fight. His fists clench and release at his sides, his eyes flashing bright blue as he sniffs the air. He stops and stares at Stiles, Scott's hand clasped around his arm, eyes narrowing and mouth tight. Stiles holds the older man's gaze, unfazed by his daunting exterior, until Derek turns on his heel with a small snort, and leads them to the car.

"Do I have to handcuff you in the car?" Scott asks with no hint of humor in his tone. His grip around Stiles's arm tightens just for emphasis.

He throws his old friend a sneering scowl. "Don't you _dare_."

"Don't give me a reason to."

Once they pile inside a black Tahoe, Derek tosses Stiles a bundle of clothes into the backseat. He barely catches them before they smack his face. He glowers at Derek's back then sticks his tongue out for good measure.

"You reek."

"Nice to see you, too. Always appreciate your complete and utter lack of pragmatics," Stiles grumbles, wishing he could smack Derek with a chair. "I can see five years didn't change you much. Or maybe it just made you grumpier. What is it? Not enough puppy love?"

Derek growls, flashing descended canines. The short temper hasn't changed.

"Enough!" Scott barks from the driver's seat. He starts the car, throwing Derek a sidelong look before glancing at Stiles in the rearview mirror. "Throw your old clothes out the window, Stiles. That way your scent can't be followed as easily."

Fully aware of the two werewolves in the front seats, Stiles reluctantly undresses and discards his old clothes out of the speeding SUV. Lucky for him the new jeans and hoodie fit, albeit a little big. The fabric smells like Derek's cologne and deodorant, catching Stiles off guard. He pulls the sleeves down over his arms to hide the remnants of the accident still caked on his skin, the blood flaking as it dried. It's under his fingernails and more than ever, he's anxious to take a scalding shower, erase the last several hours and start over. His hands tremble as he crosses his arms and slumps against the seat. He needs a distraction, his leg twitching with nervous energy.

"So, what's the plan, actually? Assuming you have one." Stiles glances from one werewolf head to the other, brow raised. "You're risking a lot for a lost cause. This war is never going to end until I'm caught or dead, you know that. And even then it won't stop. You guys will be at each other's throats until extinction."

"You're still a part of this pack whether you like it or not," Scott answers. "I'm not going to leave you to fend for yourself when this is my war, too."

_Leave me again, you mean to say? Say it! Damn you, Scott, say it! _

Stiles purses his lips and stares out the window, twitching his leg faster and harder with the rhythm of his erratic heartbeat. He suppresses the ire boiling beneath the surface and resolves to keep quiet, in spite of his innate urge to ramble. He has nothing else to say to Scott or Derek. He is _not _part of the pack, hasn't been for five years, and doesn't plan on returning.

_Claws dig into his hands, scraping bone and nerves and Stiles screams until his voice is lost to a pitiful whimper. He shakes his head, mouthing 'No,' over and over. Muscles tremble and sweat slithers down his face and back. He keeps his eyes tightly closed, purple blotches dancing against his lids. _

"_Look at me, Stiles," Peter taunts in a low singsong, "Look and see." _

_Stiles keeps shaking his head, refusing to give in to the werewolf's demand. He knows what he will see without looking. The macabre vision of torn and eviscerated flesh is etched in his memory just by the screams alone. He smells the blood; the copper stench seems to coagulate at the back of his throat, making him gag. _

"_Look! Look, boy, or I will rip your eyelids off!"_

"_No!" he squeaks, tears sprouting between tightly closed lids. "No! Please…stop. Please."_

Stiles jars awake, smacking his head against the door handle, not realizing he dozed off in the first place. He sits up, stretches his aching, cramped legs and rubs a hand over his face. Whiskers prickle his palm, stimulating him to awareness and he searches for the clock on the middle dashboard. It's past three AM. The Tahoe's headlights illuminate a long stretch of black tarmac in the pitch-darkness. There's no city skyline for what seems like miles in every direction. Dallas is long gone.

"Where are we?" He yawns, smacking dry lips, blinks past the gummy residue of slumber from his eyes and squints at the back of Derek and Scott's heads.

"'Bout fifty miles from Amarillo," Scott announces. His profile is cast in a faint glow from the odometer lights, accenting his prominent chin and cheekbones. His mouth is set hard and his hands curled tight at ten and two on the steering wheel. "How'd you sleep?"

"I have to pee," Stiles answers.

The SUV slows down, and Scott veers onto the shoulder. Loose gravel pops and grinds underneath the tires. Stiles jumps out, relishing in the brisk, midnight breeze brushing over his body and through his hair before he stands on tip-toe to stretch his limbs. Crickets chirp and frogs croak in the field ahead with the smell of wheat and rainwater wafting in the breeze. He hears the driver's side door open and close behind him, but he doesn't acknowledge Scott as he tilts his head back and breaths in a deep lungful of fresh air and holds it in.

"We're headed to Malia's," Scott says, ruining the small moment of respite, and Stiles groans. "I wanted to give you a heads up—"

"Great," he mutters, and trudges down a small ditch to relieve his bladder. Throwing that outburst doesn't seem so bad now, or at least making a run for it across the open field in front of him. Stupid idea. He knows he won't make it fifty feet before either Scott or Derek – or both – tackle him and drag him back. He contemplates trying, though, if anything to put up a fight rather than letting them take him against his will.

"Just freakin' perfect, man. Not only do you show up, but now you're dragging me to _her_ place! My life officially sucks now. Thank you."

"She's willing to help," Scott replies. "That's a start."

Stiles inhales sharply and whirls to face Scott, sees Derek in the passenger seat, sullen as always. That look is permanently etched on the older man's face, Stiles is sure of it. Exhaling a puff of air, annoyed, he looks back at Scott.

"Yeah, so she can relish feasting on my flesh. That's a great start."

Scott rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "She doesn't hate you. She's upset and hurt. You left her. You left us all."

Anger ignites like a wild, frayed spark and Stiles rushes forward, fists clenched and raised. He's inches from Scott's placid face, ready to punch the calm out of him, make him react and _fight_. "And you _know_ why I did. You want to talk about abandoning people? Let's talk about how you weren't there when Peter ripped my dad to shreds, forced me to _watch_. He kept me chained up for hours after, and I couldn't do a damn thing. I couldn't save my dad. Where were you, huh? You left_ me_, Scott. I've been there for you, no questions asked, from the beginning. I risked my life for you more times than I can count, but the _one_ time I needed you, you failed me."

He's yelling and shaking by the time he finishes, spittle flying and catching on Scott's face. The Alpha remains steady, composed and Stiles screams at him until he's hoarse. He spins on his heel and runs toward the field, heedless of what he's doing or where he's going. He just runs; it's all he can think about. Tall weeds whip at his legs, the ground mushy and uneven beneath his sneakers from a recent rainfall. He keeps running, not looking back.

A strangled cry rips past his clenched teeth when a _brick wall_ tackles him to the ground. He feels like the unfortunate player attacked by the opposing, monstrosity of a lineman on the field before the ball even leaves his hand. White-hot pain jolts through his right shoulder as it takes the brunt of the fall, with the distinct pop and crunch of a dislocated joint. He can't help crying out into the dirt, unwarranted tears sprouting from between tightly closed lids. His fingers go numb for a brief, agonizing moment before the healing process kicks in. His face is smothered in the mud, limbs thrashing in a vain attempt to get free. He's flipped over, coughing and gulping for air, and Derek's blurred face looms. No longer does his shoulder hurt, but his pride is another matter.

"This is _not_ fair!"

"Who said anything about fair?" Derek growls above him, trapping his hands against the ground as Stiles continues to thrash, bite, punch – anything he can do to show he's not bullied or weak.

"Get _off_!"

The werewolf's hold doesn't give and Stiles is left heaving and trembling, quick clouds of hot air escaping his mouth. He drags in a lungful and yells, spitting out incoherent curses in the thick of his consuming rage. He knows Derek has a short fuse, but he never expected the werewolf to strike him despite the many warnings in the past. It hurt, splitting open the tight skin over his left cheekbone, snapping his head sideways with a harsh gasp. He's shocked and stares up at Derek with eyes growing wide.

"You—"

The cut re-stiches on Stiles's cheek just as Derek's fist swings again, and Scott shouting, "Derek!" before the lights go out.

The muffled crunch and dip from the Tahoe running over a pothole pulls Stiles from a dense, dreamless sleep; his head snapping against the window with a dull thud. He cringes, feeling the remnants of Derek's powerful fist slamming into his face twice along with the phantom ache of his shoulder dislocating during the fight. Everything heals, but he still experiences pain just like any other human, even if he technically isn't one anymore.

He's unaware of the time, how long he was out this time, until he squints at the clock. Only thirty minutes passed. He straightens and notices the zip ties holding him hostage to the door handle. He yanks on the restraints, wishing he could burn a hold through Scott's head with the heat of his glare.

"Really?" he mutters then gapes at the zip ties trapping his ankles together. "_Really?_"

"You gave me no choice," Scott says, now sitting in the passenger seat while Derek drives. He peers at Stiles in the visor mirror, remorse laden in his dark eyes. "I need you to cooperate, Stiles. If this is how I have to do it, then so be it."

"I find it rather amusing that _no one _asks what I think or want in all of this. It's either: get killed by Peter, captured by the Calaveras, or dragged along by you for your own personal agenda. Not giving me a choice is not going to help your goal."

"No, because you'd rather throw a childish fit and let the hunters use you to kill all of us," Derek interjects, baring his teeth. "You're selfish, Stiles. That's what you are."

Stiles kicks the back of the driver's seat and receives a surly glare from the older man. "If I wanted your opinion, I would've asked for it." He looks back at Scott in the mirror. "I'll keep running. I'll keep fighting you."

"And I'm not giving up on you."

"You can't redeem yourself, if that's what you think. I'm through with throwing my life on the front lines for someone who couldn't do the same for me." Stiles shifts in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position with his hands trapped. He grumbles and fruitlessly jerks on the restraints, staring out the window. "Once, just _once_."

Scott sighs, jaw clenched, but he doesn't reply. Derek glances at the Alpha, face pinched with expectancy. He shakes his head, grumbling under his breath when he receives no reaction from Scott. Awkward silence fills up the SUV, sending Stiles on edge and twitchy again with the desire to be as far away from Scott as possible. Stiles tugs his arms again, feels the plastic pinching his skin, and suddenly wants to scream. He hates being trapped, the sensation of helplessness washing over him like an opaque shroud. It brings back images, sounds, and smells of the night Peter killed his father, and he can't do a damn thing to stop it. His lungs rattle as he heaves in air too fast, his vision teetering.

"What's wrong with you? Are you going to throw up?" Derek snaps, glancing in the backseat.

Stiles shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He focuses on an anchor to pull him back from the visions of blood and desperate, agonizing cries. Normally he centered on his dad, but Malia's face appears in his mind's eye, and he's startled. Still, he continues to think about her in spite of running away and breaking her heart. He thinks about how her lips meld with his, her skin hot, her heart steady. He imagines tracing the curves of her hips, tangling in her golden hair while she stares at him with the fervor of an animal that wants to devour him. That look always sent shivers rippling up and down his spine—

Just as quickly as the good memories emerged, he's reminded of the betrayal and hurt he knows he will see on her face – on everyone's faces – when they meet again, and he groans low with the sudden weight of guilt. His chest aches, _burns_ while muscles seize up, coiled so tight he swears he's going to snap if he doesn't get out of the car _now_.

"_God—_"

"Stiles?"

He opens his eyes, lids fluttering with tears catching on his lashes. "Scott, please just let me go. Just let me go, man. I can't do this—" He shakes his head again, and pulls on the zip ties with all the strength he can gather, which only results in bruising and cutting his skin. Blood trickles down his arms, drips onto the floorboard. He releases a frustrated howl and slumps in the seat. "Malia. She… I can't—"

Scott turns around in the seat to look at Stiles, brow creased and lips drawn down. "Stiles? Stiles! Listen to me."

He peers at Scott through narrowed slits, breathing in and out between tight lips.

"Her place is the safest. Deaton's helped to ward it to throw off our scent and keep other werewolves out. We need to gather as a pack, and think of a plan instead of running all the time," Scott explains, his voice softening as if to placate Stiles's anxiety. "Please trust me when I say we only want to help you. You're our friend, the glue that kept this pack together, and I can't lose you. Not to the hunters or Peter."

Admitting Scott is right makes Stiles want to seethe, but he concentrates on staying silent, still, refusing to satisfy Scott's need for reconciliation. It's the best comeback Stiles can conjure. He looks away from the Alpha's searching gaze and stares out the window. He gnaws on his bottom lip, thinking of different ways to escape Scott and Derek, and hide from everyone trying to get a piece of him. Dallas was a complete screw-up and he has to do better to cover his tracks, keep his scent from detection. Nothing solid comes up, not when he's surrounded by beings that are stronger and faster than him, and every plan would be thwarted.

Soon, they end up in a small town that appears to roll up the streets by sunset; everything is closed aside from the motel and a hole-in-the-wall diner. The motel's bright red blinking vacancy sign is like a beacon in a desolate landscape. Derek takes the off-ramp and drives along the main street. They pass a two-pump gas station, general store, and the diner before parking in the small lot of the unkempt motel. Derek pays for the room before checking the perimeter and surrounding woods. The room is located at the end of the long, single-story building, barely any cars in the lot. Scott cuts the zip ties around Stiles's wrists and ankles, and escorts him inside with a duffle bag in tow.

Like every cheap motel, it's a mixture of cheesy seventies and Pueblo style decor, an odd, musty stench, drab comforters and questionable spots on the sheets. The bathroom smells like old piss, the toilet appears it hasn't seen a scrubbing brush in years, and the shower seams are covered in black mold. At least the beds are made, but if they are _clean_, that's up for debate.

"It's just for one night," Scott says when he notices the disgusted frown Stiles directs at the bed. "Once we're back on the road, we have about eight more hours until we make it to Malia's. She lives outside of Flagstaff now, close to the Canyon."

"Lovely," Stiles mutters, eyeing the rabbit ear antenna on the analog TV. He feels like he's thrust back in time where the luxuries of technology and accessibility barely existed, and it gives him the creeps, suddenly feeling naked without his cell phone. Thanks to Scott, it's still at the apartment in Dallas, along with everything else Stiles ever owned.

"Go ahead and take a shower," Scott insists, nodding toward the bathroom, "There're fresh clothes in the duffel. Derek'll get burgers from the diner after he's finished checking the area."

Stiles nods without complaint, desperate for a hot shower to clean off the last twenty-four hours of grime, grabs a bundle of clean clothes from the bag and shuffles into the bathroom. He locks the door and leans against the wood, breathing deep and slow through his mouth. This is a messed up situation he's in. The longer he's with Scott and Derek, the more he recognizes he needs them to survive and find a way to end this godforsaken war he's stuck in the middle of. He may have a chance fighting against a horde of hunters, if he has the right amount of firepower, but Peter's pack terrifies him. He doesn't have anything, much less the courage, to face Peter again. For five years, Stiles succeeded by masking his scent – thanks to Deaton – and blending in a populous without detection. The only explanation for exposing himself by saving the kid was overconfidence from fooling his enemies and hiding for so long. Despite giving that freckle-faced teenager a second chance at life, Stiles knows he created a mushroom cloud effect of chaos, one that will end with more blood on his hands.

He can't go back and change the past, but how he deals with it from now on is the million-dollar question.

_You're not trying to deal with it, that's the problem. You just keep running away. How does this solve anything? _

He can't keep running from Scott. Sooner or later, he has to face the past and forgive. He has to remember Scott is his childhood friend and the one person who knows more about him than anyone. If their roles were reversed, without an inkling of doubt, Stiles knows Scott would find a way to pardon what he sees as unpardonable. Scott can help, if only Stiles can set aside the grievance and _believe_ that, and accept it.

_I can't. I can't do it— _He squeezes his eyes shut until it hurts, heart clasped in a vice inside his chest, breath catching in his throat. The pain is still too fresh, too vivid and haunting, as if Peter had dug his claws in the Sheriff yesterday. Stiles gasps and bends over, clutching his middle as the sharp ache of nausea curls in his gut, and he sinks to his knees on the filthy tile floor. Tears well up, distorting his vision of staring at the cracks and mold in the grout, and he doesn't care to wipe them away as they spill over his cheeks and soak the collar of his shirt.

A soft knock on the door jars him out of his despondency and he swipes at the stray tears with an irritated hiss. He stumbles forward and jerks the faucets on until the water runs hot. Steam clouds up the small space. He lets out a shaky breath through gritted teeth, scrubbing his hands over his unshaven face.

_Get it together, man._

"Stiles?"

"What?" he snaps.

"You…okay?" Scott's voice is lined with reluctance, revealing the timid, asthmatic kid Stiles used to know before their whole world went to shit in a hand basket.

"I'm peachy," he grinds out, rolling his eyes. "Leave me alone, will ya? I'm starting to feel claustrophobic even with you on the other side of the door."

He thought he heard Scott mumble an apology, but he's not sure. Doesn't matter, he doesn't care. He strips and steps under the hot spray, begins scrubbing his body with a fervent desperation to clean away the blood, the past, _everything_. He wants it all to vanish down the drain, never to burn in his memory again. A shuddering exhale escapes as he leans forward, palms flat against the tiles. The water streams down the line of his back in hot rivulets. It eases the tension twisted in the group of muscles along his shoulders and back. He rolls his head from side to side, tries to alleviate the pressure, as he watches the pink-tinged soapy water rush toward the drain.

By the time his hands and feet are wrinkled and the water's run cold, he steps out of the tub and dresses quickly. He smells the take-out food before he even emerges from the bathroom, and it makes his stomach roll. Bile stings the back of his throat and he diverts from the open bag of fries and cheeseburger on the table. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly to quell the nausea. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning, right before the motorcycle accident, and doesn't have the desire to eat anything now.

Derek's nowhere in the room, and Scott has his back to Stiles, rummaging through the duffle bag. He doesn't have anything in his hands after pushing the bag off the bed, most likely trying to find something to keep him occupied while waiting. When he faces Stiles, the load of worry is substantial in his eyes, stooping his shoulders. It bears guilt and Stiles can't stand to stare at Scott when he looks like a kicked-puppy.

He curls up on the bed farthest from the door, his back toward Scott. The mattress is as hard as a concrete slab with broken springs digging in his ribs and hip. Wrinkling his lips, he punches and fluffs the pillow, changes positions until he's at least semi-comfortable on his stomach with his legs spread out, and closes his eyes. No doubt he won't sleep.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Scott asks after a pregnant moment of quiet.

"I'm not hungry," Stiles says, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder.

Derek returns several minutes later in wolf form, smelling like grass and dirt and fur. Stiles listens and waits, holding his breath, tries to stifle the fear that werewolves ingrained in him. The wolf advances, and Stiles feels the unexpected bounce and dip when over one-hundred-fifty pounds of sinew and _beast_ settles at the end of the bed like a loyal and domestic lapdog. He steels himself from freaking out over the proximity, the muscles along his back and shoulders taut again, despite the placating heat and sense of protection emanating from Derek's body.

This is not uncharted territory for Stiles, but he's apprehensive all the same. He swallows, tries to get rid of the lump of uncertainty stuck in his throat. There is no feeling of begrudging tension from the Beta, but a profound air of vigilance and calm. The last seven hours of Derek scowling and muttering obscenities under his breath completely contradicts his character now, and Stiles is thrown. Then he recognizes the same sensations of being watched while in Dallas, but it never escalated to oppressive or threatening. He only remembers feeling secure. Stiles didn't realize it was Derek the whole time, thinking it was his great ability to blend in and cover his tracks.

He is Derek's charge, his to protect, and Stiles wonders for how long since he left Beacon Hills.

He cranes his neck around and stares at the wolf over his shoulder, curled up and cozy, luminescent blue eyes unblinking, watchful. He wants to look away, but he can't; transfixed on the wolf's silent acknowledgment of his role within the pack. It doesn't unsettle Stiles as much as he thought it would, and for the first time in five years, he feels _different_. Complete. By comparison, it's minuscule, nothing like what he had with the pack before Peter killed his dad.

It's progress.

At least Stiles can accept that.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Desert Refuge

Malia owns a large, one-story ranch style home in the middle of an open field surrounded by coniferous trees, with rustic wood beams and stucco outer walls. The property is picturesque and serene with the snow-capped mountains towering in the distance. It's a prime location for a pack of wolves the freedom to run wild.

One good thing came from Peter: his money.

In hopes of Malia joining his pack, Peter granted her an inheritance of three-million dollars. He tried to buy her off rather than cultivate a true relationship with his only daughter. She took the money and never saw him again.

While the Tahoe rolls along the gravel driveway, the first thought crossing Stiles's mind is, "Whoa," and the second is "Oh shit," with the stress of dread and regret of seeing his ex after five years of silence. He pushes it down as much as he can, but he can't stop his hands from shaking and leg jerking with panicky, built-up energy. More than anything he wants to escape the backseat of the Tahoe – maybe try and run again, but he squashes the stupid idea before it festers into action. He doesn't want a repeat of the night before.

Derek parks the SUV in front of the house's entrance. Natural stone steps precede to impressive double wooden doors. Lydia stands on the porch with Isaac, her petite face aglow with delight, hands clasped under chin. She reminds Stiles of an Anime character, full of bouncy and spirited excitement and big eyes sparkling. Aside from replacing the short skirts with tight jeans and a pullover, she hasn't changed much in appearance.

Stiles is barely out of the backseat before she tackles him in a hug, almost toppling them both to the ground. A low hum of contentment vibrates against his ear. He closes his eyes and holds her close, inhaling the coconut scent in her hair.

"Stiles," she exhales, squeezing her arms tighter around his neck, as if to ensure he's real. "I've _missed_ you."

"Me too," he sighs, smiling into her hair as his hand cradles the crown of her head. The realization of how much he's longed to see Lydia and dwell in the firm shelter of the pack hits him full force. He doesn't want to let her go. She is a relief from the persistent tumble in his gut brought on by guilt. He doesn't want to relinquish this moment and remember his cowardice of running away from the only people who would and continue sacrificing so much for him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the coolness of tears pooling and soaking his lashes. "_God_…me too."

A rough clap on the back draws Stiles to look up. Isaac stands nearby, a smirk stretching one corner of his mouth, as he says, "You're doomed, you know that, right? You can't leave again. I tried, now look at me."

Always with the socially blatant and awkward comments, Stiles wants to roll his eyes.

"How was Paris?"

"French," Isaac replies with an offhanded shrug.

Despite the frustrating banter they'd exchanged in the past, Stiles smiles and squeezes Isaac's shoulder, as a feeling of ease blankets him. Realizes the pack never abandoned him after the havoc he spread while possessed, and the load of shame settles in his stomach like a boulder. They forgave him without hesitation. They accepted him and loved him no matter the irreparable damage and loss he created.

Why can't he do the same for Scott? Forgiveness is a hard pill to swallow, but it never became a problem until then. Until he couldn't protect his dad from the supernatural horrors the pack battled on an almost weekly basis. When Scott promised he would take care of Stiles and his dad – that nothing would harm them, and his assurance failed. The pain of that broken promise holds Stiles back from fully forgiving his best friend, his brother.

As hard as Stiles tried to keep the Sheriff safe and oblivious to Beacon Hills' unnatural occurrences, it came knocking on their door with a vengeance. After the Nogistune's possession unleashed the power within Stiles, a plethora of threats crashed in like a tsunami wave. The target on Stiles's back became oppressive and a daily battle to stay alive. At first, he couldn't understand what the big deal was until it became apparent he can _heal_ lycanthropy. Completely strip the powers from a werewolf and make them human again. When the Calaveras caught word of this, they created a devastating path of death and ruin in their wake to catch Stiles, while Peter and his newly formed pack wanted to ensure Stiles wouldn't last another day to become the hunters' tool. Not only Peter, but also other packs from several different territories wanted a piece of Stiles to feast on. He felt he had no other choice but to run, not fully accepting the only hope he had of surviving rested on Scott and the pack.

"Where's Liam and Cora?"

"On their way," Scott answers, hoisting the duffle from the ground and heads up the steps. He adds over his shoulder, "C'mon, there's food waiting and plenty of time to catch up inside. We'll wait for the rest of the pack to arrive before we start talking about any kind of plan."

Stiles glances around, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, anticipating Malia's appearance with trepidation and yearning. As if she sensed his internal want, she emerges from around the corner of the garage, wiping dirt off her hands with a soiled rag before tucking it in the back pocket of her jeans. Sweat slicks her face and collarbones, glistening in the soft light of the sunset. She seems taller, tougher – if that's even possible. Her hair is cropped short and dyed black, which throws Stiles off, but she is just as gorgeous as the last time he saw her, if not more intimidating. His heart rapidly skips as she approaches with the silent grace of a hungry hunter, her gaze penetrating and dangerous. Stiles stumbles back, throat dry and tongue swollen and stuck to his pallet. Even if he had the ability to speak, he doesn't know what to say. Not when she looks at him and every moment spent together comes back in a current, paralyzing him on the spot.

The space between them is filled, and Stiles smells the sweat and earth on her skin. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths, her eyes bright with anger as she looks Stiles up and down. He stares at her, silent and cautious, but he can't deny his heart fluttering with the silly anticipation of a warm welcome back.

Every inch of her is tense, ready to pounce.

Silly thought, indeed.

Everyone's caught off guard, _especially_ Stiles, when Malia produces a Phillips head screwdriver and plunges it into the meat of his left shoulder right above the armpit. Gasps and shouts rise in the cool air. Lydia releases a terse screech. Blood rushes to his ears, throbbing in tune with the damaged nerves in his shoulder, and muffling the sounds around him. He opens his mouth in a silent cry, trembling hand clutching the screwdriver's handle, eyes bulging. He can't catch his breath through the pain, and a red haze clouds his vision. He was expecting a knee to the balls or at least a punch to the face, but not _this_.

Through tears, he sees Malia's retreating boots then Scott is obscuring his view. He groans, curling in on himself. He's not sure if it's the fact that Malia stabbed him or that he deserves it, which makes him want to throw up. In the last twenty-four hours he's been kidnapped, tackled, punched, and impaled. Admitting he deserved it all is the hardest part, but he knows he does. He just won't express that out loud. Not yet.

"Stiles?" Scott's hands hover by his shoulders, uncertain, but ready to catch Stiles if he keels over. "Do I need to pull it out?"

"Yes!" Stiles snaps through clenched teeth.

Scott hesitates, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Derek steps around Scott, rolling his eyes, and grabs the handle, yanking the tool out with a quick backwards thrust. Lydia gasps, and Stiles jerks and shudders with a pathetic high-pitched whine, stumbling into her awaiting arms. He leans into her tight, consoling embrace, panting. Sweat slithers down his face, his spine, and he shivers.

"That… went as well as could be expected," he grunts, and blinks hard against the fog of tears. Then he squeezes his face into a grimace, feels the itching and tenderness as the wound mends. He rubs the unblemished spot, ignores the blood coating his fingers, and gawks at the freakin' hole in his shirt.

At least Malia didn't aim for his neck. She doesn't want him dead, just maimed. Like Scott said, it's a start.

Isaac chuckles before Derek slaps him across the back of the head. Lydia is compassionate, but quiet when she rests her hand on Stiles's arm. He forces a pacifying smile and covers her hand with his own.

"It's fine – I'm fine," he mumbles.

"Give her a few days," Derek says, staring off in the direction where Malia disappeared behind the garage again. "She'll come around eventually. She always does."

Cocking an eyebrow, Stiles regards the bloody screwdriver gripped in Derek's hand, curious if he can actually believe the older man. How can he when he royally screwed up with Malia after dumping her in the worst way possible? There are no _few days_ to come around from the inexcusable.

"Where's the doghouse? I don't even think sleeping on the couch is an option for me," he says, and absently rubs his shoulder.

Lydia shakes her head and pats his arm. "Don't worry about that. There's plenty of room." She tries guiding Stiles toward the house while the rest are already making their way inside. He keeps his feet firmly planted, nibbling on his nails. She lingers, looks up at him with a pout. "What's wrong?"

"Can I—" He sighs, scanning the landscape, avoiding the probing stares directed at him. "I need a minute, guys. Alone."

Derek and Scott exchange looks from the corner of their eyes, the skepticism and mistrust written all over their faces.

Stiles rolls his eyes, wants to punch them both, but instead heaves an exaggerated exhale as he flaps his arms in surrender. "I'm not going to run, okay? I just need some time to process everything. Besides, it's not like I would get far anyway. You'll just tackle me and drag me back."

Scott clenches his jaw and gives Derek another wordless, knowing look before nodding stiffly. "Just be careful."

"Yes, mom."

He watches them disappear inside the house, Lydia dragging behind with her frown deepening, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when the door closes with a soft click. He circles around and looks at the stretch of nature, inhales the fresh grass and pine-scented air.

Exhale. Inhale. Repeat.

Finally he doesn't feel like he's suffocating, caged in, and unable to _think _without the worry someone is watching him or wanting to hurt him. Of their own volition, his feet move and he wanders. He doesn't care where. He doesn't care how long. He just needs this time to gather in all that's occurred in the last twenty-four hours, and what will inevitably happen. The pack has to determine some audacious plan to end this feud between hunters and werewolves, but even if the outcome results in Stiles's death, the war will still go on. Until every last hunter or werewolf is wiped from the earth, this fight will never end in peace. A land where that happens doesn't exist.

He shakes his head. He is so damn tired of thinking about it, but the more he tries not to the more his mind unburies. His abilities. Malia. The pack. Or whatever stupid plan that will ultimately fail. He struggles to clear his head of the fear and pain and strife. He can't remember a time when he could think without cause for worry for his friends, his family, or himself. It's been so long since he and Scott were just awkward teenagers trying to survive high school and Lacrosse together. The planet has shifted right underneath them, throwing their lives in endless disorder.

The sun had set a while ago, and the night sky is a dazzling coagulated expanse of stars, more than he's ever seen in his life. Mesmerizing. Peaceful. The first quarter moon provides ample light to see the ground and trees surrounding him. Crickets chirp in the tall grass and the wind whistles through the trees. He keeps walking, gazing up, and unaware of the time or how far he's strayed from the house. When he peers behind him, the house lights are a bright, but small beacon in the far distance. Still, he doesn't want to go back. Not yet. The longer he's alone, the better he feels. He's used to solitude, despite a part of him that's always craved the pack after he'd left.

Eventually Scott will come looking for him, but Stiles doesn't stop. Let them come. He'll give in and return with them, but until then he's content to remain in isolation for as long as he can. He's walked a few miles by now and he feels _good_ – a rare occurrence in his life. Cold mountain air ruffles his hair and seeps into the threadbare cotton of the hoodie and jeans he's wearing. He shivers, pulls the hood over his head and encircles his arms around his chest. He can smell the smoke of logs burning and knows a place of warmth and company awaits him at the house. He contemplates returning, at least to catch up with Lydia, but he desires the outdoors, the clean air, and the freedom of the open field.

But the moment of complacency is vanquished when he senses more than sees something nearby. Silence engulfs him. There's no sound of wildlife or even the wind. It's not the cold raising goose bumps all over his skin, but the creeping knowledge he's not alone. He stops and scans the surrounding area. His heartbeat quickens, climbing up his throat, breath shallow.

He wonders about returning to the house when he spots a towering black wolf climbing a large flat rock protruding skyward in the ground. Pinpricks of blood red flare in the moonlight. It's about thirty yards away, standing tall and unflinching to Stiles's presence. At first he thought it was Scott until he sees the thick line of silver fur starting from under its chin down to the sternum. That pattern is distinct. Only one wolf Stiles has ever known bears that mark.

He can't breathe; the oxygen going into his lungs seems clogged, like a bucket of tar filling his airway.

_Oh… Shit!_

Stiles chokes out an icy breath. His mouth falls open in a soundless cry as the panic squeezes his vocal chords, his ribcage. His pulse thunders, whooshing in his ears, as his limbs weaken and tremble. In an attempt to retreat, his feet tangle and he stumbles and falls hard. The ground is unforgiving as his hands and left hip impact with a bed of small, jagged rocks – feels the sting of cuts and blood slicking his skin. He scrambles to get up and _run_ when the wolf releases a short howl and stalks toward Stiles.

He can't get his legs to move fast enough. Voluntary muscles refuse to listen to the frantic demands his brain is sending, and all he can manage is a pathetic backwards crawl, trying to salvage his voice to scream for help. Even if the Pack heard, they wouldn't get there in time. He hears the wolf advancing, dried leaves and grass crunching underneath its massive paws, sees red eyes glaring at him and gaining speed. It's almost on top of him and hunches low to pounce. A ragged scream surfaces as Stiles raises his arms to shield his face from the inevitable attack of claws and teeth—

Nothing comes.

He's almost afraid to lower his arms to see if the black wolf is standing there, but he knows it's gone. Vanished. Like it never existed. But he couldn't have imagined the whole thing. It felt so real, too close. It's hot breath prickling his skin and sending freezing tendrils through his veins. He swears he smelled the wolf's dense coat, felt its heat against his skin, saw the blood that stains its claws from so many kills.

Lack of sleep and food, that's what he blames for the all-too-real hallucination.

Slowly, he squints over his forearm and heaves in a gulp of air. The breath exits his lungs in a deep, adrenaline-filled rattle.

A different wolf, this one white as snow and crystal blues, sits nearby and assesses Stiles with a noncommittal gaze.

"M-Malia?"

Stiles blows out a tremulous sigh and collapses on his back, staring up at the sky while attempting to calm his heart back into his chest, his pulse threatening to burst out of his skin. He threads a shaky hand through disheveled, sweat-soaked hair and blinks hard. A shooting star whips across the black blanket full of white flecks.

"I thought…I thought you were…Peter," he quakes, licks his dry, trembling lips and closes his eyes as a resounding wave of relief courses his body.

Malia huffs, expressing her annoyance the only way she can as a wolf. She treads forward, filling the distance between them, her paws barely making a sound against the earth. Stiles feels more than sees her nearby and out of an old habit, he extends his arm to brush his fingers through her soft fur. She moves out of reach just as he skims the line of her ribs, and trots past him toward the house. He rolls over and watches her go, a piece of his heart tearing in two as the separation widens between them.

"Malia, wait," he calls after her, voice catching at the back of his throat.

Her ears flatten. She stops several feet away and turns her head, looking over the long, sturdy line of her back. Underneath the moonlight, her eyes are so translucent they appear silver, deadly. Her claws and teeth are twice as menacing as the screwdriver, but somehow he knows she vented most of her anger when she stabbed him. Now comes the part where he has to gain her trust again. Loyalty is never a question, most of all with Malia, but abandoning the one you love will cause a valley to stretch deep and wide, and Stiles has to find a way and _fight_ to fill that gaping hole.

"Please, Malia. We need to talk," Stiles says as he lifts himself up on legs that feel like cooked noodles. He spreads his hands in a sign of surrender and waits for Malia to concede.

For a moment he's certain she'd ignore his plea and leave him alone in the middle of the field, but then she transforms. Her body stoops, curls in on itself as paws turn into human hands and feet. Fur disappears, leaving behind smooth, naked skin. Abnormal sounds of muscle and bone stretch and snap, piercing the quiet night. Stiles knows it's not painful for them: the shift – not anymore – but he recoils anyway.

Nude and unashamed of her lack of clothing, Malia stalks back to Stiles with her eyes narrowed and shimmering blue before fading to honey brown. Her jaw is set tight and lips pressed in a thin, firm line. He doesn't notice at first the ire bunching her muscles like an overly tense spring ready to release. All Stiles can do is stare, mouth slack as his eyes roam over her body, her curves—

He didn't realize how much he's missed taking in all of her until he can't catch his breath again, abs squeezing with the giddy, fluttering sensation of arousal. He wants to reach out and touch her, brush his hands along her perfect skin and feel her strength twitch and flex underneath his callused fingers.

Malia growls and crosses her arms. "Really, Stiles?"

He snaps his mouth closed and swallows. "Sorry, I— I can't talk. Not like this." Shaking his head, he strips off the hoodie and hands it to her, averting his eyes with a nervous frown.

She snatches the jacket from him. "You're pathetic," she mutters and slips the hoodie over her head. It's big on her, but barely covers the tops of her thighs. For now, it will suffice to keep his attention elsewhere.

He rubs his hands together and shakes, feels the cold leach into his skin without the extra barrier of cotton, and curls his shoulders in a poor attempt to stave off the chill.

"Look, I'm sorry—" he starts and sighs, looking up as if he can find the words he needs from the heavens. Now that he has her full attention, he can't produce an articulate explanation. He opens and closes his mouth, drops his arms with another resigned exhalation. "I don't know what to say to make things right. I wish I did, but…I don't have an excuse."

She wrinkles her brow and her scowl deepens. "Excuse? There's no excuse for ditching your friends…your _pack._ Sorry isn't enough, you know that."

"I know."

"No. I don't think you do. Not yet. You're a coward, Stiles. You're selfish and stupid."

He grimaces as if struck with her fist.

"In a time when you needed us the most you run and hide. I don't get it. I loved you…I still love you. You left like everything between us didn't matter at all. We could've had something amazing. I could've helped you…protected you. But you left. Like you didn't trust me or care about me."

"I do care. God, I care so much about you. I just—"

"I know you do," she interrupts, her voice clipped and strained with the weight of five years of heartache – of abandonment and anger and worry. "That's what hurts the most."

"I am a coward. You're right," he admits, closing his eyes and releasing a long, beaten breath. "I ran because I was afraid of seeing more people I love get hurt or killed. I panicked and didn't think about what that would do to you or the Pack. Or to me. I couldn't stand another minute in Beacon Hills after what Peter did to my dad. After he tried to kill me, too. The only thing I could think about was getting as far away as I could."

He spreads his hands and takes a tentative step toward Malia, seeking her forgiveness, her permission. She stands her ground, doesn't back away or react to his proximity. Boldly, he closes the distance between them and lifts his hands until they are hovering inches from her arms. Her heat radiates like a soothing downy blanket and he wants – _needs _– to get closer. He looks at her, really looks at her, and drinks her all in as if she is an oasis in a desert and he can't get enough of her presence. Before he can stop himself, his right hand reaches up and fingers comb through her cropped hair. She responds with the slightest whimper trickling up her throat, and her lids flutter closed.

"Don't—" she moans.

He drops his hand and clenches it into a fist. Too soon. It's too soon to think he can come back into her life like nothing's happened, like he didn't leave her to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart scattering in the wind.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, voice cracking as Malia takes a step back. "I'm sorry, 'Lia. Please—I want you to know I never stopped thinking about you."

She shakes her head, scrunching her eyes closed as if to escape the stupor she slipped into. "Stop." Her head keeps oscillating and she backs away further, spinning away from Stiles. She shifts back into a wolf and disappears into the brush like a white apparition.

Stiles can't sleep.

It's not his overstuffed stomach from the lasagna Lydia cooked, or Derek lying as a quiet, disconcerting sentry in front of the open French doors, or that the night has cooled considerably, threatening the first snowfall of the season after dark clouds have cast over the sky.

He can't sleep because he can't stop thinking about Peter or the hunters killing Malia, Lydia, Derek – or Scott. He can't sleep because he can't seem to put aside Scott's failure to come when Peter attacked. He can't sleep because he wasn't able to defend himself or protect his dad. He can't sleep because Malia doesn't trust him and he aches for her too much.

So many things running around in his head like a swarming nest of bees, constantly buzzing and working. It gives him a headache. The pain pulsates like an inexperienced child with their first drum set, just pounding away with no rhythm.

In his desperation to seek rest, to stop the cartwheels of his thoughts, he pulls the covers over his head, closes his eyes tight, to muffle Derek's breathing and the scant light from the embers burning in the fireplace. The residue of any sleep is gone. He's wide-awake and can't shut his brain off. He only tosses around for another hour or so, grumbling with the irritation of his current predicament. He gives in, throwing another chance to sleep to the wind, and sits up. Derek's ears twitch and swivel, but he doesn't lift his head from his paws to watch Stiles stumble toward the chair by the doors, wrapping the comforter around his shoulders like a cumbersome cape. He sits with his knees close to his chest and huddles further in the warmth until he resembles a cocoon of fluffy down feathers and printed flowers on cotton.

Stiles stares beyond the veranda of the guest room, tries to focus on more than the few feet he's able with the night at its darkest and the clouds stamping out any aid from the moon and stars. He's hypnotized for a moment by his hot breath forming little puffs of fog in the frosty air.

Outside a wolf howls in the far distance – most likely Scott – before another echoes and another until the pack signals their locations around the perimeter of the property. Derek raises his head, ears perked, listening for a still moment before resting his chin back on his crossed feet. He doesn't move from his post, doesn't regard Stiles, but remains vigilant and loyal to the task given to him.

"How'd you get stuck…with guarding me," Stiles mumbles behind a yawn, infuriating him more that he's evidently tired, but too alert to doze. "I'd consider it more like punishment. Must be hell for you, huh? Is it because you think I'm gonna run again? I won't, by the way. Don't worry. I'm not gonna give you another reason to punch me." He stifles a laugh through his nose and combs a hand through his messy hair, grips thick strands at the back of his head and clenches his jaw.

He knows Derek won't – can't – answer him as a wolf, but he talks to the black beast anyway. It calms him, helps him to focus on one train of thought, even if that path winds up in the past. The gate lurches wide and several years of bottled up emotions gush out before he can stop them.

"You all must think I'm an idiot not to forgive Scott like I should. It's hard. Man, it's really hard. I've never felt so much anger towards anyone. Not even Gerard or the Darach or…" He groans and scratches the side of his neck. He keeps his eyes forward, gazing at nothing but dark, faint outlines of trees and distant mountains. But he notices Derek's deep and appraising wolf eyes looking up at him from the corner of his vision. "It's just that…he promised. He promised he would protect me, my dad…and the one time I really needed him to act on that promise he turned his phone off to be with Kira. It's crazy. He's never done that. How can I let that go, Derek? Would you?" he retorts and swipes at a tear that's escaped before the salty wetness reaches his upper lip.

Derek remains silent, unmoving, but still listening. He gives Stiles his time to open up still fresh wounds and confess the hurt plaguing him. Somehow, it feels good, yet foreign. Stiles was silent for so long, he almost forgot what it feels like to talk to someone who will pay attention. Scott was always the one Stiles defaulted to when he needed to vent or ramble on. He never expected Derek to fill that void.

Green eyes consider Stiles, but he can't tell what the wolf is thinking.

"This all probably seems petty to the pack. Am I right? Like, I've had all this time to think about what happened and move on. But I've never had to _move on_ from something like this. This is different than when my mom died. We knew it was coming; I had time to psych myself up for that. But this? I don't have the slightest clue how to deal," Stiles continues, blowing out a strained breath, and leans his head against the wingback of the chair, closing his eyes. "I know it's stupid, but sometimes…sometimes I wish Peter had actually killed me when he tried that night. Maybe then the pain would be tolerable. Maybe I wouldn't feel a thing wherever I would go. Then nobody can use me for this damn curse inside me."

He jerks, gaping at Derek when he moves closer and plants his head on the arm of the chair, nose brushing against a bit of skin on Stiles's shin. He looks up at Stiles with something akin to remorse, and something tells Stiles it's not pity. For a long, awkward moment, Stiles wonders if this wolf in front of him is an imposter. Derek is far from the cuddling type, least of all with members of the pack, and now Stiles really has no clue what to do. The elevated heat of Derek's body radiates through the thick comforter, providing an extra layer of warmth that Stiles accepts. He can't help thinking when did the shift in attitude change, when did Derek relent to outwardly showing his love and loyalty to the pack?

Without meaning to, Stiles folds deeper into the comforter and leans toward Derek's startling consolation. An uncanny, yet comforting silence stretches and drifts between them. The burning coals in the hearth fizz as the remnant of the fire simmers. Stiles's eyes fall heavy, head lolling as his fingers scratch in lazy circles the top of Derek's head, between soft ears.

Sleep drags Stiles under and he clutches onto it.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Ambushed

Stiles wakes up to snow.

He gawks at the thin layer of white dust and a giddy smile tugs at the corners of his lips, bathing him in an odd sense of warmth; something he hasn't experienced in a long time. He's reminded of lively memories of those rare occasions it snowed in Beacon Hills. He and Scott would find the highest hill and sled down on cardboard boxes and wouldn't come home until soaking wet, sore, and stomachs growling for dinner.

Even with the dull ache of nostalgia burrowing in chest, he wants to sit for hours and watch flakes the size of quarters continue their lazy descent.

Sometime during the predawn hours, Derek must have left and Stiles is a little relieved, considering he feels silly after spilling his guts to the older man. There's no telling what Derek thinks despite his silent offer for comfort. Honestly, Stiles is still not sure what he thinks about that odd turn of events. He's uncomfortable but also – strangely – reassured. Letting him know he has a strong ally in Derek. Underneath that sour scowl Derek wears on a daily basis lies a man who actually gives a damn. He cares. He's loyal. Stiles _needs_ that sense of security and a confidant in the midst of his world going to shit in a hand basket.

He frowns, shaking his head before running a hand through his hair. He unfolds his legs, and stands to stretch his limbs with a loud yawn, the comforter slipping off his shoulders. Muscles ache and bones are stiff from sleeping in the chair. Not the best place, but he's thankful for the brief rest. Odd enough, he's refreshed and ready to take on whatever obstacle – or he should say drama – he will no doubt face once leaving the safe confines of the guest room. He has no idea if Malia will come around today. He's not sure if he's ready if she does. Not after last night and his pathetic attempt to seduce his way back into her life.

_I think that's in the top five of the dumbest things you've done, Stilinski. And you've done a lot of idiotic stuff in your life. Yep, and this one is definitely not five…or four. _

Rubbing his hands along the scruff covering his face, Stiles shuffles into the bathroom to relieve his bladder and freshen up. When he leaves the guest room, retying the strings on his baggy sweat pants, he smells coffee brewing.

Lydia is alone in the massive kitchen, preparing breakfast, but not for a pack of hungry werewolves. They must be outside, hunting for their own morning feast. Sunlight reflects off the snow outside and bathes the open and airy room in a pleasant glow, creating a halo of light around Lydia as she moves about. Her hair's caught in a messy bun atop her head and her small frame hidden beneath an oversized sweater and boxers. Even with the sleeves rolled up, they drag and almost catch in the bowl of beaten eggs. Stiles steps up behind her, smiling, and smells the butter melting in the pan along with lavender coming from Lydia. He gathers in a deep inhale to relish in her scent without thinking, and moves the bowl aside before fixing her sleeves.

"Thanks," she murmurs and returns the sincerity of his smile as his hands linger, ghosting over her forearms.

As if burned, Stiles jerks out of his stupor and steps back a safe distance – just until he can push his heart back down his throat. He busies himself with pouring a cup of coffee and hiding his blushing cheeks with the large mug. Silence engulfs the space between them, but somehow it's not as embarrassing as Stiles assumed after that brief exchange.

"Can I help?" he asks after a long sip.

She nods; her hair bobbing. They relax into a quiet rhythm with her stirring the eggs and Stiles poking the bacon with tongs. Fat sizzles and pops. Every so often he catches Lydia looking at him from the corner of his eye. He grins and bumps her hip with his own just to brighten her face more. She smiles then ducks her head, giggling beneath her breath.

"Were you able to talk with Malia last night?"

Stiles shrugs and wrinkles his nose at the memory of his pathetic attempt to seek forgiveness from Malia. A part of him wishes he can forget the whole encounter, possibly start over, but more than that he wants to enjoy this refreshing moment with Lydia.

"She didn't try to kill me or stab me again. I guess that's a good start."

She nods slowly and licks her lips, brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her hand drops so suddenly on top of Stiles's, he doesn't know to react other than gape like a fish out of water.

"I'm glad you came back," she admits, staring up at him under the fall of her lashes and squeezes his hand, "I know it must've been the hardest thing you had to do. I understand why you left and I don't blame you. But…I'm just glad you came back."

Heat radiates from her palm all the way to Stiles's groin, the hairs on his arms standing up. His cheeks burn and he gazes at her, breathless. Whatever reply he may have had is lost in the messy cartwheels in his gut and the pack coming back, piling in the house like a herd of elephants. Stiles jumps, his heart hitting against his ribcage like a chaotic spinning pinball machine. He clears his throat, snatches his hand from under Lydia's, and hurries back to the other end of the kitchen. If that isn't obvious, he doesn't know what is. Too late to move now when Malia and Scott appear. The suspicious glare Malia directs at Stiles is enough to make him want to scurry and hide from any sharp objects in the vicinity, or just her claws.

_Smooth. Real smooth, Ace. _

He avoids looking at Malia too long and refills his cup with coffee. Lydia's focused on the toast, so entranced, almost as if she's worried one glance away from the toaster and it'll burst into flames.

Isaac and Derek followed by Cora appear around the corner. The younger Hale looks like a lost, kicked puppy with her tail between her legs; shame etched on her haggard face. Blood stains the right side of her hair and neck.

"Where's Liam?" Stiles asks when he notices the grim looks on each of their faces. Scott seems more pissed than anything with his jaw and hands clenching, his eyes predatory. Stiles's pulse quickens. Something terrible has happened.

"The Calaveras," Scott spits out, his knuckles turning white. "They ambushed Cora and Liam in Barstow. They took Liam." He looks ready to punch a wall. Instead Scott leans forward and braces his hands on the edge of the island and breathes slowly out then in.

"There's no telling what they're doing to him to get information," Derek adds with a deep scowl, no doubt recalling his own time in Mexico under the care of the Calaveras.

Scott hangs his head, releasing a strained growl, his hands curling into clawed fists. Ire emits off him in turbulent waves, filling the room with thick, almost palpable tension. The Alpha has regarded Liam as his own kin – like the little brother he's always wanted to look out for. He's always carried a strong sense of responsibility for Liam, especially after biting the kid. Not to mention Cora looks as if she's going to burst into tears any second. She's combing shaky fingers through her hair before her face crumbles and she disappears to the living room. Derek follows her without a word.

Stiles peers at Scott through narrowed, wary eyes. He's almost afraid to ask. "So…what does this mean? What are we going to do?"

"I don't know yet. I need time to think of a plan." Scott shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. He rubs the back of his neck, starts pacing. The remaining pack gives him abundant room to vent his rage on the polished cement floor.

"_When_ they come, guns blazing, we won't have the manpower to fight back," Malia supplies with her usual candor, and crosses her arms.

"I _know_ that. We have to move Stiles somewhere else…"

"What about Peter?" Malia chimes in after a stretch of silence fills the room. "If we join forces, isn't that enough to take down the Calaveras for good?"

"_What_—_no…_"

Stiles's heart pumps blocks of ice through his veins. He's not sure what's worse: the mention of seeking help from Peter or that Malia brought it up. He wonders if she said it just to get back at him, but he tries hard not to think Malia is that cold-hearted despite the hurt and anger she must be feeling.

"It might work…" Scott trails off, face screwing up, as if warring with himself.

What happened to Peter being public enemy number one? The fact that Scott is _actually_ considering the idea causes Stiles to seethe and see red. He feels as if the ground is shifting and crumbling underneath his feet. He grips the counter behind him, but the solid surface does little to keep him from swaying. The words he's hearing, he can't believe it. He can't fathom this topic is even up for discussion. He has to govern the impulse to lunge at Scott and beat him into a sniveling pulp.

"It can't hurt to try and negotiate some kind of truce. Doesn't Peter want the Calaveras eliminated just as much as we do," Isaac asks from his secluded corner of the room, leaning causally against the wall with arms crossed over his chest, content to watch chaos unravel from the sidelines, but still eager to add his two cents.

Stiles's jaw drops. He looks at each person in the room with the incredulity accelerating his pulse and causing his hands to shake. "Am I the only one here who hasn't officially lost every bit of logic and sanity? I'm seriously tempted to electrocute every one of you and knock some sense into you." Stiles whirls on Derek when he returns from the living room. "Are _you_ okay with this?"

Derek clenches his jaw and sharply shakes his head.

"This is the last thing I would ever want to do—"

"Then don't!" Stiles shouts at Scott, throwing his hands up in the air. "After what he did to my dad…you can't expect me to go along with this. I want to kill the bastard, not sign a treaty with him!"

Scott drags a hand over his face, scratches the stubble on his chin, but doesn't answer. It seems as if he's aged considerably in the last few moments, eyes dark and weary and the crease on his forehead deeper.

"You know what he is capable of. You all do. He will manipulate you and make you think he's helping when he will only have _his_ best interests in mind."

Stiles refuses to give up the fight to convince Scott – the pack – to think of something, anything that doesn't involve the psychopath who deceived and manipulated them from the moment he came into the picture, and then stole everything from Stiles. He lingers on Malia, silently begging her for help in his dying battle, but she looks away. Abandonment is like a jagged blade driven into his gut. How can his friends even _think _of groveling at Peter's feet? Stiles would rather slit his throat and bleed out – too bad he'd only heal and have to endure the agony of facing Peter again.

"Please…don't do this—" Stiles chokes out, throat constricting, with one last plea. Bile burns his tongue. Tears well up and trail down his cheeks when all he sees in his mind's eye is the broken and bleeding body of his dad in front of him, Peter relishing in feasting on flesh while Stiles, defenseless and weak, loses his voice from screaming and begging Peter to stop.

"I'm all ears to whatever suggestions you have, Stiles. Please, tell me if you have a better idea, because I don't know what else there is," Scott counters.

_You inconsiderate little—_

Anger surges through Stiles like a storm crushing the sea and restraint evaporates. He stalks forward and swings his fist before Scott even realizes the attack is coming. Cartilage and bone break with a resounding and delightful crunch and Scott staggers back with a sharp cry. The impact jars Stiles, his hand throbbing, but the pain is well worth the effort. When he tries lunging for another punch, Derek grabs his arms and yanks them behind Stiles, and pulls him away. He tries twisting out of Derek's unresisting hold, but then surrenders, fully satisfied when he sees blood seeping between Scott's fingers cupped over his nose.

Derek still doesn't release him.

Stiles sends Scott a withering look, pouring out all the hatred and malicious intent he can summon. Disjointed wrath overrules any reason for resolution. Whatever part of Stiles was willing to give Scott a second chance has snapped like a cut string. He doesn't care they grew up together, had sleepovers and endless game nights playing Halo or Mario Kart, and shared boxers for crying out loud. Scott was _family_ – not anymore. Stiles can only think about the heartache and disloyalty hardening his heart from those recent and raw memories.

"What the _hell_, Stiles?" Scott bellows, his eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and irritation.

"You had that one coming for a long time and I was _happy_ to oblige," Stiles snarls, baring his teeth. "You want my suggestion, huh? Okay. Go right ahead and give in to Peter. It's what he wants. But if you go through with it, I will _never_ forgive you. You will be my enemy."

"That's enough," Derek interjects and drags Stiles away from the rest of the pack, pushing him outside. Stiles stumbles onto the front porch, limbs flailing aimlessly as he spins around facing Derek. The older man stands inches from his face, blocking his path and challenging Stiles if he tries fighting his way back inside.

Raising his hands, Stiles stomps down the steps with a loud, exasperated exhale. He collapses on the last step and rests his arms on bent knees, stares across the expanse of Malia's property and tries soaking up the quiet stillness that contradicts the edgy, murderous tone behind the door. He fails and keeps replaying the words exchanged, which does little to appease the menagerie of his emotions tumbling around like a battering ram, resulting in a sharp, painful twinge behind his eyes. He kneads his hands together to keep them warm, feels the bite in the air prickling his bare arms and feet. But then the cold helps to disintegrate the heat of his anger, bringing him back down to earth with clarity.

Derek sits down beside Stiles. Silent, watchful, and patient, but Stiles feels scrutinized like Derek is a burning fluorescent spotlight shining over him, exposing all his fears and troubles to the surface. He fidgets under the intensity of _Derek_.

"What?" He shoots Derek a sideways glare, voice cracking. "What is it? Are you going to tell me that I was being childish in there? You don't have to, you know. I know perfectly well how I was acting. I'm just…_angry_. I don't know how else to react to all this. I feel like I'm losing it – my mind, friends – everything."

"You're not losing your mind," Derek interrupts, sighing, "Or us. Honestly, you're handling it better than I probably would. Well…aside from your horrible attempt to run away a few days ago."

Stiles looks at the older man long and hard, eyes narrowed, not the least bit amused by Derek's attempt at a joke. He curls his upper lip before laughter shakes his shoulders. "Yeah, that was pretty bad." He watches Derek from the corner of his eye, smirking. Then he sobers and tucks his hands close to his chest, seeking warmth from his armpits. "How long have you been watching me in Dallas?"

Derek sniffs, staring ahead. He rubs his palms over his jeans and licks his lips. "Three years. It was Scott's idea. He wanted to make sure you were safe."

"Three…years? How—"

"When you left Beacon Hills, Scott went crazy looking for you. He barely slept or ate," Derek replies, shaking his head and blinks slow. "We found out Deaton helped you cover your scent. Scott was blue in the face trying to convince Deaton to tell us where you went, but he didn't know. I don't think he would've said anything if he did. I never saw Scott so…torn up. He screwed up. He knows it. He's never stopped feeling guilty. He thinks he doesn't deserve forgiveness, but that won't stop him from loving you and trying to protect you."

Stiles feels the ache deep in his chest. No matter the amount of rage he has built up toward Scott, he can't deny the Alpha is still his best friend, his brother. They have been through so much together and beat the odds when it came to life and sacrifices and danger. There was a time when Stiles would go to the ends of the earth for Scott. Now, he thinks twice about it and it shouldn't be that way. It never should have come to this decaying chasm between them, and Stiles knows he's to blame.

"What happened between Scott and Kira after I left?"

"She moved back to the east coast with her parents. Started college there, I think. Scott keeps in touch with her, but he's devoted all his time trying to figure out a way to keep you from being used as a pawn."

"Why don't we just take the Calaveras out? Rather than letting them come to us, let's go to them and beat down their front door—"

"It's not that simple. Lady Calaveras has recruited more hunters in the last few years in her mission to hunt you down and make us extinct. Her following is too much for us to handle alone."

"Can't we negotiate with other packs to help us? Why is Peter the only choice?"

Derek shakes his head, and answers, "I don't agree with joining Peter and his pack, but other packs would rather keep to themselves than mess with problems that don't concern them or their territory. It's just instinct in order to survive."

Stiles grumbles under his breath.

"I remember when I was Alpha. I thought I had it all figured out because I was powerful and feared by the rest of the pack, but I kept screwing up and hurting those I cared about," Derek says with a heavy exhale, "Scott reminds me of myself, but without all the cockiness. He's a great leader, and I wouldn't want to follow anyone else, but sometimes he uses his power as Alpha and makes stupid decisions. It just goes to show there's still humanity in him and he has a lot to learn."

"Don't we all," Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes. He scratches his cheek, rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "Thanks, by the way…for, uh, keeping an eye on me."

Derek nods before he turns his head and watches Scott emerge from the house. Stiles senses the Alpha's eyes on his back, causing his muscles to bunch with the sudden and unwelcome appearance. A silent exchange between the two werewolves and Derek stands to leave, creating a void that Stiles wishes Derek would fill again. He's grown used to the older man's understanding and comforting presence, and he isn't ready to face Scott.

Scott fills the spot Derek occupied and offers Stiles a blanket and socks. The intention is pure and Stiles takes them without complaint, but he doesn't know what to say. Uneasiness becomes stifling. He twitches with the uncertainty of Scott's desire to be here. More so he doesn't want to talk about the unreasonable plan of joining forces with the one werewolf that has done nothing but wreak havoc everywhere he treads, and delights in it.

"We're not gonna contact Peter," Scott announces in a quiet, remorseful voice, "I was freaking out about Liam, but Lydia snapped me back to reality. In the moment, I thought it was the only choice we had. It was really stupid and I'm sorry for getting carried away."

Stiles closes his eyes and visibly releases the tension contracting in his neck and shoulders, lifting a silent thanks to Lydia. He could kiss her right now. He lets out a long rush of air and nods, swallowing hard. Then he burrows deep within the folds of the blanket, hiding half his face from a sudden slap of cold wind. It ruffles his hair, stings his eyes.

"I'm sorry, man," Scott says through a shaky moan, as he leans forward with his arms braced on his knees. His voice fractures, catching in his throat. "I—I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. I wish I had the power to rewind and make it right—"

Shaking his head, Stiles cuts in: "Don't. It's fine."

"Is it really?"

Stiles looks at Scott with the assumption sarcasm is painted across the Alpha's face, but instead he finds genuine concern and hope for restoration. Something inside of Stiles breaks. The wall he's fortified all these years is chipping away, large pieces crashing down and uncovering a once lost capacity to excuse past mistakes and broken promises.

"I'm still mad as hell, but—" Stiles replies through a well of tears, "You're my brother and I can't keep this front up much longer. I feel like I'm going to break. I just…I just miss my dad, man. God, I miss him so much." Salty wetness drops from his eyes, blurring his vision. He doesn't wipe away the tracks of moisture.

Scott pulls him into a hug, so sudden and unexpected Stiles can only stiffen in response. Then whatever resolve he had left crumbles like a snowcap hurtling down a mountainside. He clings to Scott, grasping the sturdy lifeline, and lets a deep, wrenching sob claw out of his throat.

* * *

><p>The action is coming up in the next part. Promise!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

This Place Was A Shelter

A little over twenty-four hours later and the pack have a plan. Or at least, Scott pulls the first idea out of his ass and says, "Yup, this is the one." No one seems to protest outwardly, aside from Stiles. He tells Scott it's a stupid idea, teetering on the line of epic of all idiotic ideas, and Scott has plenty of those under his belt.

Moments like these, Stiles can't imagine how Scott survived without him for five years. He glances at Derek, and _knows_, makes perfect sense. Derek has the most experience out of anyone where it concerns the world of the supernatural – something Scott will always lack in no matter if he's the True Alpha or not. Stiles loves Scott's many qualities, but he is dense when it comes to common sense sometimes. But Derek seems to follow Scott like an obedient puppy, completely contradicting the frightening Derek Hale that Stiles knew back in Beacon Hills. Hot-tempered and ready to spit out fire on anything he disagreed with, especially with Scott and Stiles.

Separating the pack is so far from wise, it's not even on the same continent. They are vulnerable, nowhere near as strong as a full pack. But Scott is adamant on looking for Liam, with the hopes they can pick up his trail. Doesn't mean they can save him – if he's even still alive – and most likely outlived his usefulness to the Calaveras by now. Scott is loyal to a fault, blinded by a strong sense of duty to protect those close to him. Stiles can relate, though it doesn't negate the fact that Scott's idea is still reckless and dangerous. Stiles hates being realistic in situations like this, hates to imagine what the Calaveras have done to Liam to gain information, but someone has to say what everyone else must be thinking.

Derek's face speaks volumes on his opinion: lines pinched around his mouth and eyes narrowed to slits with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Malia keeps her mouth shut, avoids Stiles like he's the freakin' Bubonic Plague, and he only assumes she wants an opportunity to distance herself from him by going along with Scott. No doubt that's the reason why she's the first to volunteer for the mission of "Operation Rescue Liam."

So much for repairing their relationship.

He has no clue if she still needs time or she's officially given up on him, because she won't _talk _to him much less look at him. To Malia, he doesn't exist, and he imagines this is how she felt when he ran away. He can't blame her. A part of him wants to fume and throw a fit, force her to give him the attention he need to make amends, but he grudgingly gives her the space she demands. He loves and adores Malia, always wills, but he's starting to think the time apart made them drift further to the point of no return.

An hour after "Operation Rescue Liam" is finalized, around midday, Scott leaves with Malia and Cora following. Derek's not happy about Cora going along, but she insists on helping lead Scott to the last place she saw Liam. She says it is the least she can do after running away and leaving Liam to fend for himself. Stiles doesn't know the whole story – Derek seems to – but Cora is the only one blaming herself for what happened. They all know what the Calaveras are capable of. Where Peter is the boogeyman, the Calaveras are the people you call to hunt the boogeyman.

Watching them disappear in a cloud of dust kicked up by the Tahoe's tires leaves a bitter taste in Stiles's mouth, like unsettled acid coming up his esophagus. He can't shake the unease tightening the muscles along his shoulders and neck, his stance ready for a fight that hasn't shown up yet.

Something bad is coming. There's always something creeping in the shadows, eager to strike where it concerns their lives, and he doesn't need Lydia's abilities to confirm that.

Derek's in a sour mood, stomping around the house and slamming cabinets in the kitchen, pacing around aimlessly with hands flexing into white-knuckled fists. Stiles watches him from a comfortable distance, senses the frustration bunching muscles and grinding teeth. It's no secret he disagrees with Scott, _and_ Cora for going along with him. But why didn't he step in and prevent the plan from going through if he's so against it?

Too late now.

He barks off orders to pack light and be ready to leave in two hours, and then he disappears. Where they plan on going, Stiles doesn't know, and isn't inclined on asking when Derek looks as if he wants to tear out someone's – or Scott's – throat. He's not sure Derek even knows the answer. Hopefully as far away from the stretch of the Calaveras' arm as possible – if there is such a place. Until the hunters are dealt with indefinitely, Stiles is certain he will have to run the rest of his life, staying three steps ahead to mask the target on his back.

With little to nothing to pack, Stiles opts for wandering the property in order to keep his restlessness and jittery nerves from bursting out of his skin. The magic pumping through his veins rid him of the need for Adderall, but he can't break the habit that drives him to remain busy and keep moving.

He stays near the house, not venturing as far as he did the first night here. Lydia joins him, and he soaks up her quiet and refreshing presence. Yesterday's snowfall has melted with the sun high and bright, leaving behind wet, soggy dirt and sporadic puddles they try to avoid sinking into. They carry on with small talk at first and then catch up on the last five years, settling into a familiar and complacent rhythm. Stiles listens intently, finding pleasure in the sound of her voice, as Lydia recounts her lack in finding motivation or a suitable major while at Stanford, and eventually stopped going. She doesn't regret her choice by moving back to Beacon Hills, but her parents badgered her relentlessly despite having a full-ride scholarship. They couldn't stand watching their only child throw away a future of success, she recalls bitterly.

They are holding hands by the time they circle back towards the house. Stiles can't remember when their fingers interlocked, but he's comforted by the warmth and delicate shape of her small hand, contrasting his, and he doesn't let go – doesn't want to.

"Why Dallas?"

"I knew I needed a big city to blend in. I didn't plan on staying as long as I did, though I moved around a lot in the city. After more than two years of nonstop running, I was _tired_. Dallas was the closest at the time and decided to lay low there for a while and then…I just stayed." He shrugs, and says, "I planned on leaving that night Scott came."

"Because of the boy you saved?"

Stiles nods and grimaces at the memory – of his rash decision and the consequences that followed. "Bringing someone back from the dead did something crazy to me. For the first time since this…ability happened to me, I was human again and it freaked me out. Imagine that." He coughs up a sardonic laugh. "I didn't even think about it when I laid my hands on the kid. I thought it would be like every other time I healed someone. It felt like…almost like I absorbed too much and it tried to pull me under, too. I was scared out of my mind."

Lydia squeezes his hand with silent affirmation, her shoulder brushing his arm. His skin tingles under his clothes and his hand instinctively tightens around hers. He can get used to this – to them – where only they exist and nothing else matters or can bother them.

"Now I know how you felt after Peter bit you," Stiles says in a soft, regretful voice. "You thought you were going out of your mind, didn't you?"

"Without you guys, I literally would have," Lydia replies and bumps his shoulder intentionally. She gives him a tender smile and her lips are rosy and full, beautiful. Everything about Lydia is stunning to Stiles. He's never stopped loving and admiring her, hoping one day he can love her more than a friend.

"Especially you, Stiles," she adds, peering at him through the curve of her lashes, "You helped me more than I gave you credit for."

Stiles can't stop the heat coloring his cheeks bright pink. "I care about you—"

"About that—" she sighs and stops walking; catches Stiles off guard. He faces her, his pulse thundering like a crazy drummer in a heavy metal band.

She lifts his hand and presses her lips to his palm, kissing it slowly, almost teasing. Stiles blinks, jaw dropping as his breath stills in his chest. Butterflies flutter in his stomach, his knees shaking and weak. She looks up at him, her bright eyes telling him what she wants from him, mirroring his own desire to be closer to her.

"Lydia…"

He releases a shuddering breath and his hand burrows in her thick hair behind her ear, pulling her near. Their chests are flush against one another, breathing the same air within the small space between their lips. For a pregnant moment, they do nothing but stare as their lungs heave with shallow, expectant pants.

Lydia lets out a small sound akin to an ardent gasp. Her eyelids lower, fluttering half-mast before she seals the tiny distance between them, seizing his mouth in a ravenous kiss. Air freezes in Stiles's lungs, his entire body tensing. He back pedals a step, stunned by her blatant need for intimacy with _him_, but momentum in the kiss isn't lost. She plants her hands on his shoulders, nails digging in, scraping lightly through the cotton of his jacket as she snags his lower lip between her teeth. A bone-jarring shudder moves along Stiles's spine and he whimpers against her mouth, desperate for more. He grapples for purchase in her hair, flexing his fingers at the base of her neck. Hands move down his back and grasp flesh underneath his shirt, scratching, and sending ripples of heat through his body, blood rushing to his groin. Hips thrust into hers and she mewls in his mouth, her nails digging deeper on his back.

A loud gasp hitches in his throat when Lydia steps back, panting and eyes dilated. She is striking: her full lips slack, cheeks glowing, and lids drooping. His hands tremble with the craving to draw her close again, feel her body vibrating with lust against his own.

"I want you, Stiles," she admits between shallow, heavy breaths, "I've wanted you…for a long time."

He swallows, licks his wet, swollen lips, and tastes her on his tongue. _Yearns_ to taste and touch every part of her, feel his fingertips spark as they trace her curves and dips. "Me too," he replies, voice scraping raw. "_God—_yes."

Combing his fingers through her hair, he descends on her mouth and their tongues flirt and dance—

"Um," Isaac clears his throat nearby, surprising Stiles and Lydia.

With his throbbing heart beating against ribcage, Stiles inclines his face toward the sky and silently curses his luck. Glowers at Isaac from the corner of his eye with his lips stretched in a thin line. Damn Isaac and Derek and their shitty timing. Damn it all to hell.

Lydia chokes out a laugh – actually _chuckles_ – as she leans forward and presses her forehead on Stiles's chest. Her shoulders rise and fall with weighty breaths, sweat soaking strands of her hair. He wants to laugh at the absurdity, but he's frustrated more than anything and opts for wrapping his arms around Lydia, comforted by the slight tremors of her body as her silent laughter continues.

"Derek's ready to leave," Issac announces with a smirk full of mirth widening the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, got it," Stiles retorts, "Thanks."

Isaac walks away, shaking his head. Lydia peeks at Stiles through a veil of hair, grinning like a tipsy, lovesick teenager. Reminds him of how he used to act, clumsy flailing and all, when Lydia would cross his path in school. He plants a peck on her nose and then nuzzles her cheek. "This isn't over," he says in a playful tone, brushing hot breath along her smooth skin, "Far from it."

She shivers and nods against the scruff of his beard, clutching his hand in hers. They return to the house in easy silence and find Derek and Isaac still loading up the car. Stiles follows Lydia inside where her small bag rests by the sofa in the living room. When she stoops and picks it up, she staggers and clings to the arm of the sofa, eyes wide and glazed over.

"Something's wrong…" she whispers in a foreboding, hollow voice. "Very wrong."

"_Derek!_"

"I hear…crackling, like sparks sizzling," she murmurs and then gasps, lifting her gaze to Stiles. Terror flashes the whites of her eyes. He grabs her arms and steadies her as she sways on her feet. "It's so loud—"

Derek and Isaac barrel inside the house with the younger werewolf colliding into Derek's back when he stops short. A string of obscenities trail out underneath Isaac's breath. No explanation is needed when they recognize the distant look on Lydia's face, her eyes seeing beyond the present.

"What do we do?" Stiles probes the older man, his voice rising an octave in the frenzy of his growing panic.

"What do you see, Lydia? Can you give us anything?"

She closes her eyes, scrunching them tight. They wait on bated breath, anxious and silent, for her to sift through her premonition. When she reopens her eyes, Stiles squeezes her shoulders in anticipation.

"I just hear a loud screech and then electricity crackling…" She shakes her head, hair falling over her face. "I…I can't tell what it is—"

"What?" Derek snaps. "Lydia. What is coming?"

Stiles gulps, but steels his trepidation as he brushes back Lydia's hair from her face.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her face falling, "I don't know exactly. This isn't how it works—"

"You would think you would've gotten a handle on it by now," Isaac mutters.

Stiles shoots him an irritated scowl. "At least we get a warning."

Isaac just shrugs and rolls his eyes.

Stiles catches Derek's nostrils flaring and lips tightening in a thin line. With no idea how much time they have before whoever is coming in a hail-fire of bullets or teeth and claws, Derek doesn't waste time. He orders Isaac to check the back of the property, while he takes the front. Isaac takes off without a word, shedding clothes as he heads for a backdoor.

"Stay here," Derek tells Stiles, voice steady, but his eyes blaze with a myriad of emotions that betray him. Worry, anger…hunger. For what, Stiles's not sure he wants to know. "Don't go outside. Find a place to hide and take cover. You hear me?"

"Let's just leave—"

"Not until I'm sure we won't be followed," Derek interjects, tone dripping with barely contained adrenaline.

"Derek—"

"_Go!_" Derek's voice booms and echoes off the high ceilings. He jerks his hand in the direction of the bedrooms, his eyes flashing bright blue.

Stiles clamps his mouth shut and nods, holds Lydia closer when she shudders. Then Derek's gone, the front door slamming shut behind him. The fact that Derek wants Stiles to cower and hide somehow makes him resentful. This is his fight, too. With the target centered on _his_ back, he should be defending himself, and not expecting others to do it for him. Again, he's the puny human pushed out of the way, and he bristles at the thought of how weak they must think he is.

He approaches the wall of windows opening up to the front of the property – doesn't see Derek or anything out of the ordinary. No cars. No wolves. Nothing but wide stretches of flatland and brush. His fingers twitch with the urge to wrap around a gun's handle – preferably his dad's standard issue he was forced to leave behind in Dallas. In a house full of werewolves, they have no need for weapons, and Stiles feels naked.

"Stiles?"

He blinks down at Lydia standing beside him.

"We need to hide."

"Let's just wait a minute," he says and peers out the window again. He narrows his eyes, searching, waiting. Minutes tick by, dragging, and Stiles's skin crawls with not knowing.

"Do you think it could be Peter?"

"No—" he rasps, shaking his head, "I don't know."

Her hand clutches his arm, just below the elbow, using him as an anchor. But Stiles is not steady, far from it. He feels the slight tremor radiating from her fingers, mirroring the anxiety screaming inside him. More now than ever Stiles wants to kick Scott in the balls for leaving them, for thinking it was okay to separate and hold down the fort on their own. Not that Stiles doesn't have faith in Derek and Isaac, but against a gang of hunters or Peter's pack, they don't have the full power of the pack to stop whatever's coming.

Lydia cups her hands over her ears and shrieks, startling Stiles and sending him down a chaotic somersault of panic. He grips her shoulders, fingers digging in and turns her to face him. She can't see him, she can't hear him, as whatever she's foreseeing assaults her senses. He calls her name, shaking her to snap out of it.

"Make it stop! Make it stop!"

"What—"

He hears a clipped howl coming from the back before the hallway and foyer explode with a deafening roar, erupting in a brilliant ball of orange. A shockwave propels Stiles and Lydia in the air as the foundation shudders with the intensity of an earthquake. Oxygen strips from his lungs in a violent burst and he crumbles against the fireplace, snapping his head against the stone. Eyes shoot open wide with blinding hot pain and his vision teeters, threatening to pull him under. Debris scatters and flutters like a swirling kaleidoscope. He feels blood soaking his hair and trickling down his neck from a large gash at the crown of his head, but he ignores it, knows it will heal soon.

_Lydia._

Ears ringing and pulse thrumming, he searches for her, but can't make out much through a gray fog encroaching at the edges of his vision. The living room is in shambles, engulfed in flames and smoke. He gags and coughs, tries to roll over onto his hands and knees, feels the heat of the fire on his back. He keeps searching, his thoughts focused on Lydia. He calls out to her, and chokes on smoke clinging at the back of his throat, in his lungs. Panic kicks into hyper-drive and his limbs grow heavy and flimsy.

Another ear-splitting explosion causes the floor to shake underneath him and he loses balance, sprawling on the floor. Chunks of plaster and drywall rain down from above. Dark, thick clouds of smoke swirl and furl on the ceiling, as the fire crackles and grows fierce, devouring everything in its path.

He finds Lydia lying motionless several feet away, tucked between the sofa and table, her back facing him. Chunks of glass and drywall are scattered on and around her body, her hair white with dust.

"Lydia!" His jolts into action and crawls toward her, sees blood in her hair, and dread rips through his chest. "_No, no, no, no…_"

She's unresponsive when he pulls her onto his lap; face slack, skin ashen, and eyes closed. Blood is _everywhere_, but Stiles can't figure out the extent of her injuries. He trembles and sucks in a breath, but he can't linger. He has to get them out of the house, no matter the danger that awaits them outside. The longer they stay in the house, the likely chance they will suffocate, burn, or crushed by falling debris.

He scoops her in his arms and stumbles up on wobbly legs. Lydia's head flops back like a lifeless doll. There's a small break in the flames around what used to be the grand foyer of Malia's beautiful home. He runs for it, leaping across the threshold, and toward fresh air. Pulsating pressure builds behind his eyes, ears still buzzing, but he jogs further away from the burning wreckage before resting Lydia on the ground. Nothing else matters but Lydia. He doesn't care to look around for whoever attacked them as tunnel vision obscures his sight; her safety his priority.

Relief floods him, making him cry out when he sees her chest rise and fall. He coughs out a sound much like a crazed laugh and leans forward to place his hands on her – to heal her. The familiar prickling sensation surges through his fingertips and then radiates across the fibers of his nerves and muscles up his arms and the rest of his limbs until his entire body feels as if it's wrapped in a live electrical wire. But it doesn't hurt, not like it did when he brought that teenager back from the dead. Mostly it itches and tingles with the energy he absorbs and then transfers back using this strange magic within him.

Lydia gasps and her eyes snap open. She flounders for a moment before Stiles takes her hands and pulls her against his chest, her body shaking with violent spasms. Then she folds into his embrace. Sobs wrack her frame and she clings tighter to Stiles, nails grasping for purchase at his back. He rocks her gently, tries consoling her, whispering in her ear that everything's okay now even when he knows that's a lie.

Where is Derek? Isaac? Were they hurt in the explosion? Were they ambushed? Shot? Dead? Stiles reels with the multitude of wild scenarios, each one ending in gruesome and unpleasant possibilities. He hopes none of them are true.

"Stiles!"

It's all the warning he has from Lydia before a large, clammy hand closes down over his face, stifling a yell. He jerks back, hitting a solid wall of muscle, and his hands fly up to fend off his attacker. An arm made of bricks cinches around his waist and forces the air out of him in a violent wheeze. He's hoisted off the ground, away from Lydia, in a dizzying twirl. His vision spins out of control with the motion and hysteria bubbling over.

Lydia screams again. Her arms stretch out, desperate to reach him as he's carried further away, leaving her kneeling on the ground. He kicks the air with his legs, wiggling and thrashing, screaming behind the hand silencing him. Sees Lydia scrambling to her feet and chase after them before she's grabbed by another man with dark skin and tattoos covering his face, neck, arms. He restrains her with a hand wrapped around her throat and presses a large, silver gun against her temple. Etchings of skulls and calligraphy flex as his stubby fingers tighten against her delicate neck. She whimpers and squeezes her eyes closed, tears leaking.

Stiles yells, shaking his head and renews his struggles until his captor jerks back on the hand covering his mouth.

"Do you see it, muchacho? See the gun on her? _Look at it. _My friend there, he won't have to shoot her pretty face off if you stop moving," the breathy, baritone scrapes against the shell of Stiles's ear, laced with a thick accent.

Stiles slumps in the hunter's hold, puffing air out of his nose. Muscles are strained and weak, quivering from the exertion of his short-lived fight for freedom. The fire rages on and consumes the house in bright flames and thick, black smoke.

_Anytime now, Derek – that would be fantastic. _

"That's better."

The hunter lowers him, gives him his feet again. A callused hand takes his left wrist, twisting it behind his back then takes his right. Metal cuffs click in place, driving Stiles into a storm of madness. He chokes on air, like it's too thick to pass his trachea, his body reflexing to fight again. When the hunter smacks the back of his head, he cries out, head spinning like a tilt-a-whirl. He blinks hard and moans, heels scuffing along the dirt as he's hauled away.

A cluster of black SUV's with at least ten more hunters clad in leather and cargo pants, carrying guns, crossbows, or Taser wands draw closer. Dread plunges in Stiles's gut, churning his stomach raw.

"Stiles! _Stiles!_"

He hears Lydia behind him, her voice streaked with panic, and he tries looking for her over his shoulder. The hunter forces his head forward. Grunting and cursing, he twists and digs his heels in the ground, trying to get a better look at Lydia and ensure she's okay.

_Derek! Where the hell are you?_

Then a guttural snarl pitches in the air, and Derek tackles in a rush of black fur and brutality. Stiles and the hunter tumble with the sudden collision and Stiles lands on the ground in a messy tangle of limbs before he shuffles backwards with his feet. Rocks and dirt scrape his trapped hands behind his back. Another growl thunders and the sound vibrates deep in his chest. Warm wetness sprays his face and hair, hears the hunter gurgle wetly. He stares as Derek has the hunter by the throat, thrashing and chomping until the body stops moving, blood spilling like a river of red – staining the ground, his black coat, and teeth.

Frenzied shouts rise from the sea of hunters. Several break from the line, wielding their weapons as a shield. Blood drips from Derek's maw as he stalks toward Stiles, placing himself between him and the hunters. Stiles smells the coppery tang, tastes it on his tongue from the blood that misted his face earlier. Low, deep growls roll from raised lips, baring glistening and sharp teeth, as the hackles on Derek's spine stand on end. Then the wolf yaps, sharp and high-pitched, warning the hunters before the full brunt of his fury escapes. He stays with Stiles, though, standing guard over his charge.

Gunshots crack and echo in the air.

Stiles recoils and searches for Lydia with wild eyes. She's running toward him in a flurry of blood-stained hair and mascara tears streaking her face. Isaac has Tattoo Face pinned down beneath his paws with over four-hundred pounds of pressure crushing the hunter's wrist. He shrieks, thrashing in agony and tries to punch at Isaac as he dives for the hunter's face. Blood squirts and bones grind; the hunter is dead after a final flop of his arms.

"Stiles!" Lydia crashes into him, wrapping her arms around him. She trembles and buries her face in the crook of his neck. He feels the wetness from her tears and her pulse like a wild beast trying to escape its cage.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he pants, wishing he can wrap his arms around her.

"No," she chokes out. "I'm not hurt."

Barking and snapping, Isaac lunges for a tall hunter with long black hair tied back at the nape. He flashes gold when he grins, raising a weapon that looks a lot like a grenade launcher. He aims at Isaac and fires. Stiles yells out a warning, a protest – he's not sure, but it's too late. Terror grips him when Isaac's captured in a metal-like net emitting thousands of volts of continuous electricity. He chokes on an agonizing yelp, muscles seizing and contorting as the pulses wrack through his body without mercy.

Lydia lets out a long, shrill scream, shaking her head furiously. "Stop! You're killing him! _Stop! Stop!_"

Isaac peals out a low, pathetic whine, paws scrambling against the ground for purchase. The torture stops and then starts again, somehow forcing him to shift, writhing naked beneath the net. Blood leaks from his nose, his ears. Lydia covers her face and cries. A few hunters chuckle with pleasure, and anger burns like molten tar, coursing through Stiles's veins, fueling him into motion. He scrambles to get up. Derek's body tenses visibly, ears flat and tail straight, and he points a side-eye glare at Stiles to _stay put_ and not interfere. But he can't let Isaac suffer for his benefit. His stubborn streak overrules any logical sense to obey Derek, and Stiles stumbles forward only to have Derek's teeth clamp down on the leg of his jeans.

"Let me _go_, Derek. They're gonna kill him!"

Derek doesn't release him.

"Stiles! Don't—" Lydia voices the wolf's stern objection.

He ignores them and yells, "Hey! Hey! Assholes! Over here! Pick on someone your own size, huh? You want me, okay? Let him go!"

The hunter with the gold smile barks something in Spanish, chortling, then switches off the current. Isaac collapses, heaving with fierce after-shocks attacking his body. He curls into a tight ball, teeth clenched, suppressing a sob. Lydia rushes to Isaac's side, uncovers him from the net and soothes with whispered words and gentle touches on his bare skin.

When two hunters approach, crossbows at the ready, Derek snarls and places himself in front of Stiles again. Crossbows raise, ready to fire. Stiles can't stop the wolf if he decides to attack, but he trusts Derek is not stupid enough, given what just happened to Isaac. But one hunter with bleached hair and a lip ring is obviously trigger happy and shoots anyway. Derek yelps, flopping on the ground with an arrow protruding from his right shoulder. Stiles yells at the hunter, his hands clenching behind his back with the desire to punch the asshole. Derek doesn't hesitate and grips the thick end of the arrow with his teeth and yanks it out.

"Get a hold of your _dog_, or we'll shoot him again, muchacho," Gold tooth says in a tone that's coated in menace. Hairs stand on end along Stiles arms and he grits his teeth. The hunter steps closer, holding his hands up in mock acquiescence. "You don't want that, yeah? We just want you to come with us, no fuss."

The color drains from Stiles's face as he looks back and forth between his friends and enemies. A fierce sense of need to protect Derek makes Stiles move closer to the hunters, his legs moving before his mind can object. He's certain they will follow through with the threat if he doesn't surrender.

"Promise me! Promise you'll leave them alone and I'll go," Stiles shouts, voice trembling, heart racing.

"You have my word your pets will be safe."

Derek barks, short and loud, and snaps his jaws with a venomous warning. Saliva flies from his mouth. Restless and raw energy vibrates every taut, wiry muscle when Stiles glances back at him. Crouching is awkward with his hands cuffed, but he manages, and places his eyes level with Derek's. The wolf stares back at him, the whites of his eyes gleaming, as he silently pleads with Stiles not to give in. Without a doubt Stiles knows Derek would kill as many hunters as he can before they can take him down, but Stiles can't let Derek intercede. They lost before the battle even started and it's time to wave the white flag.

"Look…Derek? Derek, it's okay. Look, it's okay," he soothes in a quivering voice. "Let them take me, okay? You'll find me. I know you will. You and Scott will find me. I can't let them hurt you. Just let them take me."

Lowering his ears, Derek whines, panting. Steel blue eyes flicker with rage and worry and defeat. He can see that Derek realizes if they want to keep the pack strong in order to rescue Stiles later, he has to let go.

"It's okay," Stiles whispers, nodding, more to convince himself than anyone. His breath catches when he sees the fear glistening in Derek's eyes. He forces a pacifying, but weak smile as hands grab him, squeezing the circulation out of his arms, and twist him away. More hunters crowd him and he can't get an adequate amount of air in his lungs, his vision sparking and graying around the edges.

_Breathe, Stiles, breathe. _

"It's okay," he says over his shoulder before a black hood slips over his head, eliciting an involuntary, choked yell. Out of an instinct to evade the suffocating darkness, he bucks and writhes, even when he knows it's fruitless.

He's shoved in the backseat of one of the SUV's. Sweat slithers down his back and upper lip, the hood clinging to his face and he twitches and moans with the sudden sensation of claustrophobia. Restless, he shifts his trapped hands behind him, feels the discomforting proximity of bodies pressing on him from both sides. An open fist strikes him underneath the chin, tossing his head back against the headrest. Stars burst behind his lids and he tastes blood from biting on his tongue. He groans, licking his bloody mouth.

"Stop squirming," a gruff voice demands.

"Got it," Stiles huffs out a cross reply. He stays still, breathing too hard and the thick cloth hugs his mouth and nose. The air is stifling underneath the hood and he swallows hard, tries not to freak out. But he fails when he hears Lydia screaming and Derek howling mournfully. A muted, aching sob bubbles up and spills from his lips.

_Find me. Please find me._

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! Would love to hear from you and read what you think so far. Also, thinking about writing a "pre-story" scene of when Peter kills the Sheriff.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

This chapter is a result of delirium from lack of sleep and sinus infection meds. It's graphic and may be triggering to some. Please read at your own risk.

I don't know Spanish. Google Translate helped me, so please forgive me if anything is wrong.

* * *

><p>PART FIVE<p>

Butterfly Caught

Stiles wakes in a fury of flailing limbs and a strangled cry as a torrent of ice water douses him. He can't catch his breath, the hood still covering his face, clinging to his mouth and he chokes. He flounders in a blind, frenzied attempt to evade the bone-jarring cold, shuffling his bare feet against the ground to gain purchase, but can't get far enough. His hands are still chained behind him.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. Doesn't remember much of anything after being shoved in the backseat of the SUV – was he drugged?

Something's barked in rapid Spanish – a gruff woman's voice that Stiles can't understand. But he gets the idea real quick when hands descend on him, pulling him to his knees. He yells and thrashes around, but they hold him effectively. White dots dance across his vision when the pressure points by his armpits are squeezed. He grits his teeth and his muscles slacken with the momentary defeat. The black cloth is yanked off and Stiles squints against the harsh influx of light through beads of water dripping from his hair. When his sight shifts back into focus, he finds a face weathered by the sun and age looming close to his own. The last few years have not been kind to Lady Calaveras, her hair gray and thinner and face gaunt. But her eyes sparkle with the same deadly gleam.

Licking his lips, suddenly thirsty, he croaks, "Lady Calaveras. Always lovely to see you."

She spreads her lips back in a toothy smile. "Oh, likewise, Stiles. _Likewise_."

He blinks rapidly and takes stock of his surroundings. Sunlight filters through cracks of old, termite-infested wood and sporadic holes in a metal roof. Rusty iron hooks hang from wood-paneled walls, some still holding bridles, the leather cracked and brittle from a long time of misuse and care. Smells like straw, stale cat piss, and dust: an abandoned barn. He's in a horse stall, crowded by three male hunters within a space that's too small to hold all of them comfortably. Two hold him down on his knees and Gold Tooth stands guard behind Lady Calaveras grinning with smug satisfaction, tongue languidly stroking his gold implant. Stiles can't hide a repulsive shudder when their eyes lock and Gold Tooth stares with an expression akin to Hannibal before he enjoys a woman's liver.

Jerking, he levels his fiery gaze on Lady Calaveras when she grabs his chin in her wrinkled, but strong hand. He stares at her, nostrils flaring as he tries sucking in too much air too fast. Turning his face from side to side, she studies him as if he's livestock up for auction. His stomach burns as acid churns, but he holds her probing gaze full of ill intent and fights to show her no fear.

"If I had known what you were when you and your friends came looking for Derek…" she thinks aloud, her voice full of wonder as she continues looking Stiles up and down.

"Too bad, huh? I just couldn't resist putting you up for the chase," Stiles sneers and tries shaking his chin out of her grasp, but she holds on tight. Too tight and his jaw starts aching.

"Cat and mouse," she hums and releases his face, patting his cheek. "Patience prevails. Looks like I caught the mouse after all."

He resists the urge to spit at her face. She's still a lady, no matter how wicked she is, and his parents taught him to respect women.

"Good for you. What are you gonna do with me, huh? Where are my friends? Did you do anything to them? Where's Liam?"

"All these questions…" Lady Calaveras sighs. "Despite what you think, _mi querido_, we are not savages. We honor our word. You can rest assured your Pack is safe…for now."

Stiles snarls and lunges forward as far as the hands holding him allow. "Don't you dare go near any of them! I'll kill you…I'll you _all_!"

Hoarse laughter echoes in the high rafters of the barn. Tension bunches in his shoulders and grinding his teeth. "I admire your spirit, _niño_. Save some of it for later."

He curls his upper lip with disdain, flexes his swollen and aching hands behind him with the urge to punch something. "I'm glad my situation amuses you so much. Why don't you take what blood you need for your sick and twisted crusade and you can let me go on my merry way?"

Lady Calaveras wags her arthritic finger in front of his face, clicking her tongue against her hard palate. "Tsk, tsk."

Brows creased, Stiles narrows his eyes as he watches her carefully. She stands and plants her hands over her hips and stares down at him, making him feel like a child that's berated for yelling out the wrong answer in class, before nodding toward the hunters behind Stiles. The handcuffs click open, releasing his arms. They flop like deadweight, and he hisses as blood circulates again; sharp, stabbing needles of pain run from his shoulders to his fingertips. He rubs his chafed wrists and shoots a vexing glare at her.

"Oh, Stiles, you're much more valuable than a few pints of blood," Lady Calaveras says with unsettling certainty, and the corner of her mouth upturns in a sanguine smirk. She steps close, grazing her fingers along Stiles's sweaty forehead down the side of his face in a mocking display of affection.

He recoils and bats her hand away. "Don't touch me," he grinds through his teeth, shaking all over; his voice echoes the turbulent storm of fear howling inside him. "Stop with the boring and vague monologue, and just get to the point! What are you gonna do with me?"

"Not yet, _mi_ _querido_. All in due time, I assure you. First we must make sure no one can track you. You _reek_ of wolf."

There's no time for him to react, much less process her words before he's forced on his back and hands hold him down and grab at his clothes. A wild and frightened scream shatters the air, not knowing what they intend for him. Stiles bucks and thrashes his limbs, kicking and punching in any effort to throw off the hunters trying to strip him. He manages to drive the heel of his palm against one hunter's nose and kicks another in the kneecap before his jeans are tugged down his legs and shirt ripped in half. Tossing his head, eyes shut tight and tears leaking, he screams until his voice cracks and his vocal chords are raw, panic threatening to suffocate him.

A swift blow across the face stuns him long enough for them to shed his remaining clothes, leaving him exposed and shivering from the biting cold and exertion of his fight. The hunters release him and he scrambles to get up on his elbows, crab crawling backward into a corner of the stall, and covers his nakedness. Sweat beads his brow and upper lip, ribcage heaving as his lungs try consuming oxygen that doesn't seem sufficient. Vision swims with angry tears. Like a cornered rabbit, he looks at Lady Calaveras now standing by the entrance of the stall, her arms crossed with a satisfied grin spreading her mouth thin.

"You _bitch_," Stiles wheezes.

He can't help recoiling, pressing his back harder in the corner when Gold Tooth tenses before pitching forward, arm raised to deliver a back-handed slap. Lady Calaveras stops him with a gentle, yet firm hand on the hunter's shoulder. His body visibly relaxes and he eases back, but he snarls his disapproval of not respecting his superior. Stiles wants to flip him the bird.

"Clean him up and ready to move in thirty minutes," she orders with one last appraising look at Stiles before leaving the stall.

Stiles stiffens, his body readying for a fight when the hunter with the bloody nose stalks closer. He looks like a younger – barely eighteen – and more handsome version of Gold Tooth. No doubt they're related. When he reaches forward and grabs Stiles by the arm, he swings his fist around and clips the teenager across the jaw. Blood spatters his chin and something white – a tooth – flies from his mouth and bounces off the wall.

The attack catches the hunter off guard and he loses his balance, tumbling sideways from the blow's force, taking Stiles with him when he didn't release his grip on Stiles's arm. An irritated shout comes from the hunter, and Stiles tries rolling away from him only to have another clutch a chunk of hair, wrenching his head back at a sharp, painful angle. Stiles grits his teeth, blinking up at the rafters covered in thick, wispy cobwebs. His hands reflexively flounder and grapple at the hand restraining him as he's pulled back and up to his knees. Feels hairs tear from his scalp, and the skin and muscle over his throat stretching beyond its limit. When he swallows, it hurts.

"What if I break his neck? Ya think he'd live?" the man behind him asks through a hoarse laugh, his other hand wrapping around Stiles's exposed throat, caressing and teasing. Callused skin rubs along the short hairs of Stiles's beard and he shudders, eyes closed.

Not savages? He begs to differ.

The hunter's hand squeezes hard enough to elicit a ragged, surprised cry from Stiles. Eyes bulging, he squirms despite the uncompromising position he's held in, spitting out curses and empty threats that fall on deaf ears. When the acrid smell of wet chewing tobacco clogs his senses, Stiles gags – tastes bile at the back of his tongue – and snaps his face away.

Cackles and jokes rise to the barn's rotting ceiling. They act like hungry hyenas tossing their prey back and forth just for the hell of it, while Stiles is forced to kneel there – joints aching from the extended pressure – and listen to their raucous noise. When Gold Tooth presses the pointed toe of his cowboy boot between Stiles's legs, something inside of him cracks. Morality is shoved aside as indignation devours him whole. He wants these bastards _dead_. He wants their innards splayed on the floor, painting a canvas of visceral, morbid carnage, his hands glistening red with their blood as they scream and beg for mercy that will never come.

Stiles screws his eyes shut. Sees stars burst behind his lids. He's so enflamed, his entire body quakes. He's on the verge of shattering his teeth from clenching them so hard; the gnawing sound echoes in his skull. He never fathomed the real influence his thoughts have on his ability, not until now. Not even when the hunter rips out a scream so excruciating and horrified it would give the Devil goose bumps. The hunter struggles to pull away from Stiles, but he doesn't let go. His hand is fused around the man's arm.

_Everything _burns – inside and out – yet, doesn't hurt. There's no time to think, just _do_. Power ebbs and flows, rippling like a Rayleigh seismic wave earthquake, flowing beneath Stiles's skin and out his fingertips.

He's not giving life; he's taking it. Enjoys it. This man deserves it, Stiles keeps reminding himself. He revels in the magic coursing through him and out of him. It's nothing he's ever experienced before, not even the Nogistune's possession compares. Now _he _has control.

When he lets go of the hunter, Stiles stumbles forward on all fours, sucking in large gulps of air. He hears rather than sees the body collapse. Lifeless. Dumbfounded silence coagulates the air. He can bet the two remaining men are gaping at him like a freak – a monster. He doesn't care. He lifts his head. Sees Lady Calaveras standing behind her soldiers, staring at him with an intriguing glint in her eye. She's not afraid.

"This changes things," she declares, but not with disappointment – far from it. Something familiar to amusement lightens her voice and sends a jarring chill along Stiles's spine.

Gold Tooth's boot strikes his jaw and stars explode across Stiles's sight. He sprawls on the ground and feels bits of hay poking into his back, feels the cold body of the man he killed lying next to him. A gray haze creeps around the edges of his awareness, slowly getting bigger. His entire skull feels like an over-inflated balloon ready to pop. The fist slamming against his right temple pops the balloon and he falls down the dark hole into nothing.

When Stiles comes around, face pressed against a cold floor, he has no idea how much time has passed since the barn. Most likely drugged again, out long enough for the hunters to move him to a new location. With time being elusive, he's thrown off balance like he's teetering on the edge of a precipice with nothing in sight to steady him. He wonders if he's in Mexico or if the Calaveras took him elsewhere. How many hours or days have passed since he was taken in Arizona? He wonders if the Pack is looking for him. He needs hope. He _needs_ something to hold onto.

Peeling his cheek off the cement floor, he finds he's inside a room, likely a storage space at one point, that's half the size of a basketball court. Cinderblock walls surround him and no windows with a large steel door leading out – no handle on the inside. Exposed pipes and air duct system runs along the ceiling. Some industrial building that hasn't seen production for many years.

He blinks hard, swallows thick, as the remnants of whatever they drugged him with runs its course. Mouth tastes like metal and tongue swollen and dry. He hasn't had anything to drink or eat since they took him, and at the reminder, his stomach groans. Out of instinct, his hands move to his belly to rub at the ache. But something is wrong. He hears the chink and clank of a heavy chain, suddenly feels its weight bearing down on his wrists. A disgusted sound scrapes past raw vocal chords at the sight of leather mitts covering his hands, keeping them trapped and balled into fists, like some twisted BDSM porno. Trembling, he releases another strangled sound and tugs on the thick chain connected to the handcuffs. There's about ten feet of leeway and ends where it's padlocked to an iron ring on the floor.

A chunk of his sanity shatters, and Stiles screams. The walls feel as if they are closing in on him, crushing him on all sides, the panic tightening in his chest with the threat of a panic attack. He screams and screams as a myriad of emotions swallow him. He screams with rage and terror and shock, cursing at whoever may be in close range to hear him. He screams with the sudden helplessness, pulling on the restraints with every bit of his vigor, until his wrists are bleeding and skin scraped off bone. His voice breaks, limbs weak and heavy, but he keeps fighting. Salty tears soak his face, the stiff cotton shirt he's wearing.

_Please Scott… don't leave me here. Find me. Please._

Time seems nonexistent in Stiles's prison.

He can't remember the last time he had a decent round of sleep. Fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, the incessant stimulation grating on his senses. The lights are never turned off, inflicting torture on his retinas. He's developed a twitch under his right eye from the stress. He has no idea how many days or weeks have passed since waking up in this room, and he's thrust back into the chaotic tumble of disorientation and insomnia that plagued him as the Nogistune fought for control over his mind.

He's tried piecing together some semblance of order by reciting quotes and poems, mostly Shakespeare crap that he didn't think he would remember from World Literature class. He's counted every cinderblock, every crack and crevice he can see. He even sings softly – anything to keep his thoughts occupied on something other than going crazy with sleeplessness and stagnation.

They take pints of his blood intravenously, and he's left woozy and dehydrated with each extraction. It becomes the only steady routine during his captivity, helping him grasp a tiny bit of the time passing. Each time the young woman – barely thirty with dark hair and soft eyes – comes with the tray of needles and vials Stiles has counted over eighty-six thousand seconds.

One day.

Two days.

Three days.

Then six.

No word of the Pack. Either they did give up on him, like Gold Tooth loves smearing in Stiles's face, or they simply can't find him. He's rooting for the latter, not giving up hope that his friends _are_ coming.

Pureed food and water is forced down his esophagus with a thick plastic tube, which he only throws back up. They keep shoving it down until he can keep at least half in his stomach. He swears there's some sedative laced in the puke-colored mush slithering down his throat – he always feels weird afterward. Docile and faint, while they unchain him and drag him to a room across the hall for bathroom breaks.

Those are inconsistent. Sometimes he's left squirming and begging after waiting too long. One time he couldn't hold it. He cried in the crook of his arm with the burning humiliation as piss soaked through his clothes and cooled on his skin. They left him in a puddle of his own mess until it dried, then only hosed him down without giving him new clothes or soap to wash up.

Three times he's escaped his cell, each time gaining him more distance to the outside world and freedom, but not close enough. This infuriates Lady Calaveras; the blood boiling in her veins apparent against the darkness of her skin. He's satisfied in knowing he killed five more of her men in the process, plasters on a smug grin even through the monotonous rounds of punishment. He smiles red at her and promises Lady Calaveras he won't give in.

"I was counting on it," she replies through a barely controlled snarl, and leaves Stiles with his tormentors.

Gold Tooth threatens to cut off his legs, even brandishes the machete and nicks the skin above Stiles's right knee. Jeers and laughs follow the threat from the other men in the room.

"They are useless to me. We only need your blood," Gold Tooth says. "Or maybe they'll just grow back," the hunter sneers with disgust, toying with Stiles by tapping the flat of the machete's blade against his thigh.

A part of Stiles doesn't regret spitting at Gold Tooth, as the look of horror distorts the hunter's pot-marked face, but then a bigger part of him does when the machete slices through his skin over and over until he faints from blood loss. When he comes around, he's still lying in a thick pool of his blood, now cold, and the odd weight of some _thing_ implanted underneath the skin of his left collarbone.

He has the pleasure of finding out what it is when Lady Calaveras returns and presses a button on a cellular phone. Torture made from a mobile App. Splendid. Technology at its finest.

She watches with delight as he writhes on the floor, choking on his own vomit. He has no control of his bowels and the room suddenly reeks with shit and piss. Too much pain encompasses Stiles for him to feel mortification this time. _Everything_ hurts. His heart is not working as it should, the beats slow and erratic. Chest tightening with the unbearable sensation of a heart attack, he gasps, tears melding with the bile on his chin. Pockets of awareness drift in and out. He hears the too slow beat of his heart in his ears, faintly wondering when it will stop for good.

"Quite effective… don't…agree?" Her voice is distant, garbled. When she brushes back sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, he flinches away with a whimper. "The Vagus is a vital nerve in the body. Special, you see? It controls your speech, your heart, and so many others organs. With one little press—" She taps the red button on the screen and Stiles twists in on himself, retching whatever's left in his stomach. Acid stings his throat and his vision swirls like a kaleidoscope. "Ah, I think we've come to an understanding, yes?"

Slowly he uncurls his middle finger, trembling all over.

"Wrong answer, _mi querido niño_."

He passes out before his bowels empty again.

Each day starts a new round of torment, though it all seems to blend into a cohesive bundle of _hurt_. If not for taking his blood, he'd wonder what his real purpose is to the Calaveras other than used for sport.

Gold Tooth and his lackeys particularly enjoy inflicting the most pain when he mouths off, knowing he will heal quickly after. Mostly they beat him out of curiosity to see how much damage they can inflict before he passes out, only to bring him back with a shot of adrenaline. Every wound closes and every broken bone mends, leaving him unblemished. Then they repeat the process all over again. With each excruciating moment in captivity, of the insufferable pain from his bones and skin breaking, he loathes what his body can do rather than embracing it as a gift.

He's persistent in giving them an earful of insults and cynical remarks. He can't help it. His words are his only defense, but they take that away and gag him with duct tape, leaving him nothing but the scorch of his glare. Soon they blindfold him. In the darkness, he still can't sleep. Every muscle and nerve in his body wired and quivering, anticipating another round of punches and kicks, of blades cutting and blunt tools striking.

The isolation and the silence is what drives him to hallucinate, coupled with whatever toxin they're forcing down his throat in that dreaded plastic tube. Haunting images of death and destruction caused by him dance behind his lids underneath the thick blindfold. He can't evade it and he screams out his terror, the muffled sound absorbed into the brick walls of his prison.

He starts seeing the Pack. They stand out of arms reach with somber smiles before disappearing, leaving him begging for them to come back, to keep his hope alive that they will rescue him.

Then the Sheriff comes to him in vivid detail – the smell of shoe polish from his work boots, Old Spice aftershave, and the worn leather of his utility belt. His dad appearing is the worst, to hear his voice dripping with disappointment and resentment as Stiles failed him over and over. Silent tears soak the blindfold and his stability crumbles a little more each time. He tries rebelling, reminding himself what he's seeing and hearing is not real, but his dad keeps coming back, barraging him like a baseball bat pounding on unprotected flesh. Each blow is harder than the last.

Then Stiles pictures Malia kissing him, forgiving him before her claws dig deep into his stomach and rip him open from navel to sternum. He screams. Scott and Derek join her, tearing him to shreds and throwing a hailstorm of words that damage him more than the physical. They yell at him. They tell Stiles he's not worth saving, and every moment that led to this is his fault: His mom dying, Scott being bitten, Allison dying, his dad killed, Malia leaving him, Liam taken. Stiles is not worthy of the Pack's protection. He's caused more harm than good.

He thrashes in his restraints and cries as the phantom sensations of his friends killing him with their bitter words linger – like a horde of insects crawling over his skin. Slithering, prickling, biting. Never-ending. He recoils, jerking out of the heavy cloak of fatigue, as a whisper here and there tickle his hearing.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…sorrysorrysorry… _

His stifled sobs echo the hollowness in his heart.

More blood is drawn.

On the eleventh day they shove him in a small room with a mangy, feral she-wolf, giving him an ultimatum: cure her or they will cut her in half in front of him. When he refuses, testing the boundaries of their threats, the button is pressed and he collapses when his heart almost stops beating. His mouth opens in a soundless cry, lungs incapable of dragging in air. White streaks his vision before darkening. He's vaguely conscious when Gold Tooth butchers the she-wolf and smears her blood on Stiles's lips, shoves his fingers down his throat, coating the back of his mouth with her blood. Stiles gags, unwarranted tears sprouting from tightly closed eyes.

"She was human once. You had a chance to give that back to her. That's all we want to do, _muchacho_," Gold Tooth whispers in his ear, breath that smells like cilantro and nicotine, is hot and thick against Stiles's cheek, fingers still in his mouth. His stomach rolls, but he has nothing to retch.

He's thrown back in his cell. Chained up and left alone in the dark. The blood dries, crusty and tightening on his lips. It itches. Burns. _Aches._ He tries scratching, rubbing it off, but the leather mitts hinder his frantic efforts to clean off what he could've prevented.

Twelve days.

Stiles loses count after that. After he's pushed in a different cell with Liam huddled in a corner, ears drawn back and licking his curled lips. He stares at Stiles with golden eyes brimming in terror.

Same ultimatum. Same promise if he refuses.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _

He reaches out, whispering consoling nonsense. The wolf snaps, biting at the air and eyes dart around, looking for an escape. Stiles stops moving, raises his hands in a show of submission, as he lowers to his knees. Several feet between them, but he can sense Liam's unease like a tangible spark. He whimpers, cowering further in the corner.

"It's me, Liam. It's Stiles. Hey man…" His voice fractures, hands shaking. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. It's okay, Liam. It's okay."

Ears perk up and muscles relax as the wolf sniffs the hand extended, close enough to bite, but Liam doesn't. He sniffs again, recognizes Pack, and then whines, nudging Stiles's hand. He releases a strained breath and slowly crawls forward, closing the gap between them.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…so sorry. _

Stiles combs his fingers through soft, sable-colored fur along the wolf's neck. Then he pulls Liam close, burrowing his face and hiding his tears in the thick coat. He doesn't hesitate and lets the magic leech from his hands and into Liam. Muscles bunch and tighten underneath his grip. A human gasp rips from Liam's throat and when Stiles feels bare skin instead of fur, he pulls away, holding his breath. Gold fades from Liam's eyes.

"What'd you do?" His voice hitches, rising a few octaves as realization sets in. "What have you…what have you _done_?"

"I'm sorry—"

"_What'd you do to me?_"

"I had to," Stiles answers, bottom lip quivering as the tears spill over. "I had to. They would've killed you. I had to. I'm sorry—"

Faceless hunters drag Liam out of the room, yelling and kicking, but he's weak – human. He can't fight them off. "What'd you do? What'd you do to me? No! _No!_" His eyes remain steady on Stiles, dark and wild with accusation and betrayal, until the steel door slams shut with a bone-jarring clang.

Liam's screams fade.

Stiles hunches forward and presses his forehead on the cold, unforgiving floor. The tears fall in a relentless flood. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>Gah! Poor Stiles, I know. Will he get out of this with his sanity intact? Yikes!<p>

The next chapter will be a POV switch; we'll see what the Pack has been up to during this time.

Thanks for reading! :)

I know a little in terms of medical terminology where it concerns the Vagus (10th cranial nerve), and other than procedures to stimulate the nerve after it's damaged with a pacemaker-like device, I don't think what I wrote could actually happen to a person. I'm still researching that because I'm curious.


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